


An Arrangement of Convenience

by SlytherinsDragon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha Sherlock Holmes, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, I'm Going to Hell, M/M, Omega Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Being a Good Brother, Sibling Incest, Virgin Sherlock Holmes, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-02-09 06:31:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 23,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18632719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinsDragon/pseuds/SlytherinsDragon
Summary: Mycroft suffers. Sherlock offers an unorthodox solution.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [magic1034](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magic1034/gifts).



> Couldn't resist. Will be loosely based on canon. 
> 
> Gifted to someone who has read, criticized and helped brainstorm ideas for all my stories over the years. Although Mylock isn't her ship, which is a pity. Omega!verse though - she digs.

** July 2007**

“I don’t see why you are here, brother.” Boredom exudes from every pore in Sherlock’s body as he lazily waves dismissively at his brother.

An exasperated noise emits from his brother. “Is a brother not allowed to visit and express his fraternal concern?”

Sherlock pivots on his bum on the ratty couch, so that his side, instead of his back, faces his brother. Languidly, he pulls out a cigarette from a box from his shirt pocket, lights it and sucks greedily, inhaling the smoke. He exhales, obnoxiously blowing smoke rings, before collapsing back upon the couch.

“Not when it is between you and me, brother dear.” Sherlock takes another inhale, knowing perfectly well that his brother was trying to quit the nasty habit again. He throws himself further back into the couch, stretching his arms out behind him, cigarette dangling in his fingertips.

“I’ve pulled you out of drug dens that looked better than this... squalor.” Mycroft gestures to the surroundings.

“Brother, if you do not like my living arrangement, you do not have to be here.” Sherlock glances pointedly in the direction of the door. Loudly sighing, he employs another tactic to get rid of his brother, “I have not injected any illicit intravenous substances, exploded any noxious experiments, nor fucked or impregnated any omegas within the last month.” He notices his brother wince slightly at the end of the sentence via his peripheral vision. _Hm… Interesting. What is going on with big brother?_ “I have been, by any standards, well behaved.”

For the first time during the encounter, Sherlock turns to face his brother, and actually looks at him. He puts out the cig and tosses it in the ashtray on the rickety and warped coffee table, losing the attitude. His eyes take in the data – his brother has lost five pounds; his skin looks paler than normal and there is an alarming degree of crookedness to his brother’s tie. _Is big brother ill? Wait…_

 _Oh…_ Sherlock sniffs the air repetitively, mentally cursing that the two inhales of smoke have blunted his sense of olfaction. The secondary genders – alpha, omega and beta – he has never spared too much thought on them besides their relevance in his casework. Theoretically, he knows his brother is an omega, but he has never considered the impact of the secondary gender on Mycroft’s life. In adulthood, his big brother has always been in control, whether if it was pulling the strings of the latest international intrigue, bending other alphas, betas and other omegas into his will, or micromanaging to death the aspects of Sherlock’s life. Usually his brother wears a spray to cover up his scent, masquerading as a beta, but today the smells in Sherlock’s nose inform that his brother has been in heat recently – maybe a day or two ago – and whatever had happened, was not satisfactory.

It is the unmistakable scent of a distressed omega.  

Mycroft is starting to look alarmed, presumably at the trail of thoughts he was reading from the barely perceptible changes on Sherlock’s face.

“Is there some alpha I need to beat some sense into, brother?” The question escapes from Sherlock’s mouth before he could think.

His brother’s pupils rise up in a mixture of horror and panic. “No.” Mycroft shakes his head firmly. “There wasn’t an alpha – I… I couldn’t bear it. Not after last time...”

Before Sherlock could reply, his brother flees from the flat.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock shows his fraternal concern.

** February 2008  **

Sherlock convinces himself that he is breaking into his brother’s house out of sheer boredom. Deep inside, however, he knows it is a lie. For once, the shoe is on the other foot – he is playing the role of the concerned brother. A gun would have to be pressed against his temple for him to admit that he had actually calculated the timing of his brother’s heat cycles, not that it was a difficult feat by any means.

_An omega enters estrus once every six months. In the early days, when Homo sapiens first walked the Earth, the omega had a heat approximately once a month. Natural selection during the volatile times of prehistoric men had favoured the omegas who experienced a decreased frequency of, but a more intense heat. Eventually, during times of plenty, where selection pressure was no longer present – the properties of estrus had stabilized._

Based on Sherlock’s research, he knows that for an omega to go without an alpha for one heat is crazy, and to go for two heats without – insane. Of course, society is entrenched in the view that an omega cannot be without an alpha for long – so there is a possibility of bias in the data available.

He slips through the front door, after noting that his brother had not bothered to change the passcode from the last time he had been here, and quickly sheds his coat, scarf and gloves. It is quiet. Instinctively, he heads upstairs for his brother’s study. As he nears the door, he sees a glimmer of light in the cozy room. There is the distinct potent scent of expensive alcohol and agony permeating the air. His brother is slumped against his desk, his face obscured in one arm; a partially empty bottle of whiskey sits next to his right hand. _Figures, his brother is insane enough to deny himself an alpha for two heats in a row – but why?_

Entering the room cautiously, Sherlock gently rests a hand on his brother’s shoulder. His brother stirs, and weakly blinks at him in shock, before warily saying, “I cannot deal with you right now, Sherlock.”

His brother has never looked worse in Sherlock’s eyes; he is gaunt, there is a tremor in his hands unrelated to the consumption of alcohol and there is a resigned look in his eyes.

It is highly disconcerting.

“Why are you doing this to yourself, brother?” Sherlock asks, disregarding his brother’s plea.

“Doing what to myself? Not throwing myself on the knot of the nearest alpha?” Mycroft sounds bitter; Sherlock winces.

Sherlock sticks to the facts. Facts are familiar. “You went two heats without.” He says. “There is no data for what happens if an omega goes three heats without. Believe me, I looked. Nothing on _PubMed_ , _UptoDate_ , _Web of Science_ – nothing on any known database or compendium. Not even a lousy case study!”

“You think I don’t know that?” Mycroft sighs. “I looked too, Sherlock.”

At some point during the conversation, he notices that Mycroft had taken his forearm and was sniffing at his wrist. _Radial scent gland_. His brain reminds him. _An alpha-specific gland that can calm an omega down. Releases pheromones which in turn trigger the release of oxytocin and other chemicals. Scenting is traditionally the first step of courting in an alpha-omega pair._

Sherlock discards the thought immediately.

He does observe that some of the tension held in Mycroft’s body seems to have dissipated with the scenting. It appears that his alpha biology was in working order.

His brother proceeds to explain. “Alphas… they are all the same at the end. As soon as they find out I am an omega, they want me to submit to them. They even want to bond. The concept of consent goes completely out the window as soon as they go into rut. It is ghastly! I had to throw the last one out, Sherlock – mid-heat – it was that awful.”

Sherlock actually snorts. He cannot help it. “I would have paid to see that.” A sense of pride fills him. There was undoubtedly some seriously bruised alpha ego limping down the streets of London that day – Sherlock muses. And Sherlock could understand his brother’s fear – that an unwanted alpha could bond him against his will. And from his line of work, he knew all too well that it was a common fear for omegas in an alpha-centered society.

“I don’t even know how I managed it, brother.” Mycroft continues despairingly. “But I couldn’t stand to put myself in that position again.”

Sherlock thinks. No one knows what the consequences of going three heats in a row without a knot are – but it isn’t hard to extrapolate that his brother would continue to deteriorate further. His brother needs an alpha. The alpha needs to be someone not dull and stupid and will treat his brother with the respect he deserves.

The answer when it arrives almost makes him faint.

Himself.

Sherlock has never been interested in sex. It was too messy – too complicated. He had seen enough of the consequences doing casework for Scotland Yard. Aside from the few ruts that he had gone through during puberty – he was completely inexperienced. Was he really willing to sacrifice his need for clarity of mind for the sake of his brother’s health?

“You know, there could be a solution to your problem.” Sherlock starts cautiously.

Mycroft stops scenting his wrist and looks up. “What is it?”

“You will have to keep an open mind about it.” Sherlock adds, keeping his nervousness out of his tone.

“I am desperate.” Mycroft admits, while almost nuzzling against Sherlock’s wrist.

It is a surprisingly pleasant sensation, feeling his brother’s skin brush lightly against the abundant density of nerve endings in his scent gland. Sherlock permits himself to enjoy the touch before asking. “Promise you won’t laugh?”

“This is not a laughing matter, brother.” Mycroft replies. He says more seriously, “I promise I will not.”

Sherlock takes a deep breath. He takes the plunge. “Why don’t you use my knot?”

There is a silence.

A long one.

“Mycroft?”

“Are you joking?” Mycroft is shocked. His brother quickly glances up at Sherlock’s face again and deduces, “No, you are not.” He then adds curiously, “But you’ve never even had sex?”

“If the billions of dullards around the world can do it, I am sure I can figure it out.” Sherlock says dismissively.

“I am your brother, you do realize.” Mycroft makes an objection, but Sherlock can tell that it was only a token one.

“We are not bonding. You need a knot, I have a knot and that’s that.” Sherlock states firmly. “And I would never dream of asking you to submit to me.”

“An arrangement.” His brother says.

“Of convenience.” Sherlock appends, “Besides, I might as well see what this sex stuff is all about.”

“I have conditions.” Mycroft states.

“I would be worried if you didn’t, brother.” Sherlock replies, somewhat drolly.

“No bonding, no compelling and absolutely no drugs!” Mycroft lists his demands.

 _Ah, the drugs._ Sherlock should have seen that coming. Could he manage that? He has been clean for three months now.

Mycroft says more gently, this time deliberately massaging Sherlock’s wrist with his fingers. “If you ever feel like using, contact me little brother, and we will deal with it together.”

“Fine.” Sherlock agrees; he feels himself melting under whatever Mycroft was doing to his wrist. He then asks worriedly, “Are you going to be sober enough to remember this tomorrow?”

His brother frowns at the whiskey bottle. “I only had a quarter.” He then says, “I will contact you before my next heat starts.”

“I shall await your text, brother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the support :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Mycroft experience their first heat together.

** July 2008 **

Reality is slowly but surely beginning to dawn on Sherlock. He sits at Mycroft’s dining table, a bowl of scrumptious king crab fried rice in hand, a pair of chopsticks in the other, trying to force as many calories he could into his transport.

His brother had summoned him here an hour ago:

_My house. 2 PM. MH_

As soon as he had arrived – in a new blue shirt that had flattered his eyes – Mycroft had led him into the dining room. On the table had sat carbohydrates in the form of Chinese food acquired from a place where Sherlock was certain you couldn’t get takeout at.

The implicit message had been clear from his brother – _I will not have you faint on me mid-coitus._

Mycroft had disappeared once Sherlock had started eating.

His brother’s scent still hangs in the air. It is different today – Sherlock couldn’t really describe It – more complex. But, it is beginning to make his mouth water – and not for what he is putting in his mouth at the present moment. He drops his chopsticks to scratch at an itch on his forehead, only for his fingers to come away wet. _Sweat._ _Warmth. Fever._ His digits automatically move to unbutton the top of his shirt – he suddenly feels trapped under his clothes, as if they are suffocating him. Before he is even aware of what he is doing, he has flung his shirt and belt in some haphazard direction and is in the process of removing his trousers when it finally hits him – _he is going into rut._  

“My dear god!”

Sherlock whips his head around, to see his brother walk into the dining room, wearing only a bathrobe. Taking deep breaths while gripping tightly onto the back of a chair, Sherlock struggles to clear his mind; to regain control. He is quite cognizant of the sight he makes; his trousers pooled around his sock covered ankles, his alpha cock beginning to rise from a dark thatch of curls – _oh bloody hell_. With great exertion, Sherlock turns his front away from his brother.

 _Well, this is great._ Sherlock reprimands himself darkly – after everything his brother had said about alphas and their lack of control – he is no better apparently.

He couldn’t even keep his sodding clothes on.

Hands reach for his hips, and forcefully turn him around. His brother had crossed the few steps between them and was looking directly at him with widely blown pupils.

One whiff, and Sherlock knows that Mycroft’s heat has started.

“Fuck, I thought you said we had a few hours.” Sherlock manages to grunt out, still desperately hanging onto the chair – fighting his need to go rub himself against the nearest surface – which would be his brother.

Mycroft pants, “Evidently, I miscalculated.” He adds with a knowing glint in his eyes, “Let go of the chair, little brother. I have need of your –“

Sherlock pounces, needing no finished invitations. Before he knows it, he has his brother facing against the nearest wall, and Mycroft has somehow managed to discard his bathrobe during the short trip. He nuzzles his face against the delectable junction of his brother’s neck and shoulder, at the superior portion of the trapezius, where the _glandulae pelagus_ – the main scent gland – is located, and inhales greedily.

“Fuck, you smell so obscene, brother.” Sherlock hisses, as he rubs his nose against the gland. “So, fucking decadent.” His tongue slips out and licks; he licks the area thoroughly, feeling his brother shiver and shudder violently under his attentions. He proceeds to suck at fevered skin, drawing a gasp from his brother, but Mycroft’s body stiffens when Sherlock’s teeth accidentally graze the sensitized flesh.

The reaction sobers Sherlock up at once – clearing away the drugged haze of rut, although it takes a herculean effort for him to detach himself from his brother.

Using the few functioning neurons remaining in his brain, Sherlock deduces that his brother’s years of paranoia about being accidentally bonded to a random alpha had been responsible for that particular reaction. The thought in his mind does not last long; his brother’s arms pull him back towards the wall. Mycroft rubs his nose and cheek against his neck, stimulating the _glandulae minora_ – the alpha equivalent of the omega’s _glandulae pelagus_. The action is soothing, it erases away any negative thoughts that Sherlock had been entertaining about his perceived previous missteps.

“I am doing something wrong if you can still think, little brother.” Mycroft looks reassuringly at him, “Let us revisit the time point where you were saying that I was ‘so, fucking decadent’.”

Sherlock thinks he ought to feel embarrassed, but the familiar animalistic surge of lust consumes his mind and body again. He returns to scenting his brother’s gland, but this time he deliberately presses his cock against his brother’s firm arse, earning a groan from his brother. Mycroft rocks back against him, silently asking him for more, and Sherlock drops down to his knees. Spreading the cheeks with his hands, he marvels at the slick dripping generously from his brother’s hole. He licks – Mycroft yelps, arching in pleasure. The fluid’s flavour stuns Sherlock – and he buries his face into his brother’s arse, tonguing furiously at the ambrosia leaking from his brother’s glands and plundering deeper and deeper into his brother’s cloaca. His brother becomes a moaning mess; Mycroft attempts to push his bottom further into Sherlock’s face, seeking more. Sherlock pulls away slightly, needing to breathe, although something tells him that asphyxiating on his brother’s juices and arse would not be a boring way to go.

His brother whimpers at the absence, and demands, “More!” while shoving his bum insistently in Sherlock’s general direction. Instinct drives Sherlock to stand back up; he grabs his brother’s shoulders roughly and presses his hard shaft against the cleft of Mycroft’s arse. He rubs against the flesh of his brother’s bum, aided by the copious volume of endogenous lubricant, listening to Mycroft’s laboured breathing. Tantalizingly, Sherlock brushes his cock against the opening of his brother’s cloaca. He makes zero efforts at penetration. Mycroft whines loudly in frustration –  a truly delicious sound that Sherlock saves in his Mind Palace for future analysis.

“What is it that you want, brother mine?” Sherlock whispers into his brother’s ear, as his brother tries to manipulate his own arse wantonly in order to capture the tip of Sherlock’s teasing cock into his weeping hole. Catching on to his brother’s shenanigans, Sherlock takes one step back and leaves Mycroft completely bereft.

His brother lets out another delectable whine.

“Tell me, or I am just going to leave you here… unsatisfied.” Sherlock threatens, but really it is an empty threat. He is dying to give his brother what they both need. “I am just going to stand here, and wank.” He lazily drops a hand down from his brother’s shoulder and gives his own prick a leisurely stroke, making sure to sigh loudly with pleasure.

His brother capitulates beautifully, “Fuck me! Shove your cock up my arse. Knot me, alpha!” Mycroft then begs. “Please.”

His inner alpha satisfied, Sherlock returns his hand to its original location on Mycroft’s shoulder. He purrs, “I will give you what you need, omega.” Sensing that his brother has been teased enough, he guides the glans of his sizeable phallus into the waiting orifice, and groans when he finally breaches his brother. Mycroft makes a sound that could be interpreted as a sob of relief; Sherlock remembers that it has been well over a year since his brother had taken an alpha’s cock. The heat of Mycroft’s tight passage feels incredible; his brother trembles and writhes beneath him as Sherlock’s cock penetrates him slowly, inch by excruciating inch. Sherlock realizes that he is shaking too, and he lets out a shout when Mycroft, clearly impatient, pushes back to impale himself further.

Taking that as a sign to proceed further, Sherlock shoves himself hard into his brother, sheathing himself completely. He experimentally thrusts in and out of his brother, before deciding on a brutal tempo, bringing both him and his brother closer to the precipice.

“Knot me… Sherlock… knot me!” His brother’s chantlike pleas come out ragged and barely intelligible.

Sherlock’s own breathing is becoming stilted. He changes the angle, so that each thrust grazes his brother’s prostate – Mycroft’s noises are becoming increasingly animalistic with every passing second. Sherlock could feel his knot starting to inflate, so he thrusts without abandon, before crying out his brother’s name as his first climax hits him, his knot lodged tight against his brother’s prostate. His brother comes almost immediately after he does, with an incoherent shout which triggers Sherlock’s second climax, squirting more come deep within. He moans with each successive climax, feeling his seed being milked by his brother’s rhythmically contracting muscles.

Somehow, they end up sprawled against the wall and the floor, totally dazed. Sherlock feels too boneless to move, his arms wrapped around his brother’s chest. His knot still holds them together.

As some semblance of sharpness returned to Sherlock’s mental faculties, he asks his brother. “Is it always like this?”

“No.” Mycroft replies honestly. “It is not.”

“Is that a good or bad thing?” Sherlock asks.

“Good.” Even though Sherlock could not see his brother’s face, he could have sworn that he could hear Mycroft’s smile.

“I think I need to reevaluate my stance on sex, brother.” Sherlock says thoughtfully.

“Might be prudent. Although, you may change your mind again after the heat is over. My heats usually last three days, but I think this one is going to be longer after having gone so long without a knot.”

“How long do we have until I have to knot you again?” Sherlock inquires.

“Maybe in an hour. Maybe sooner.” Mycroft answers. He suggests, “Maybe we might actually want to make it to a bed this time. As spectacular wall sex is, it gets exhausting.”

Sherlock asks a more sensitive question. “Should I avoid touching your shoulders and neck with my teeth, brother?”

Mycroft sighs. “I don’t know. Maybe it is best to avoid it for now. The last alpha as I mentioned tried to convince me to bond with him, and his teeth got too close to my neck for my liking. I didn’t trust him not to bite during climax.”

“Should I go beat him up?” Sherlock asks jokingly, but with an undercurrent of real alpha anger.

“No need, he has found another omega.” Mycroft says with great distaste, shaking his head.

“It’s never too late!” Sherlock exclaims, and his brother sighs deeply in response.

.

.

Everything ached.

Sherlock was sure he now knew the true meaning of exhaustion.

Six days.

Six days of non-stop sex, with a good hour or two of rest in between bouts.

Most of it was a blur.

He feels his brother roll towards him in the bed. Mycroft buries his face against Sherlock’s chest, and rubs at the scent gland at his neck. Sherlock feels the chemicals course throughout his bloodstream, relaxing him in a way that was better than any street drug he had ever tried.

 _Traditionally, it is the alpha’s job to look after the omega during heat; to bring water, food and whatever else the omega needed between rounds of intercourse._ Sherlock had done it for half, and then Mycroft had to end up looking after him, when they both realized that Sherlock could no longer stand on his own two feet.

It had smarted the primitive alpha ego within him, not being able to carry out his duties.

“Still need to reevaluate your thoughts on sex?” His brother asks.

Sherlock expands the incredible effort required to move his neck, so he could see his brother. “It was enjoyable until my legs gave out.”

“You did well for the first heat – especially for one as long and as intense as this one, little brother.” Mycroft replies, continuing to massage Sherlock’s _glandulae minora_.

“I will do better, next time.” Sherlock promises.

There is an unfathomable glimmer in his brother’s eyes. “So, there will be a next time?”

“Of course, unless if you don’t want to?” Sherlock looks unsurely at his brother.

“Oh no, I am not lying when I said the sex was unparallel.” Mycroft says quickly, “I’d be an idiot to turn it down.”

Sherlock laughs; his abdominal muscles protest by sending pain signals to his brain. “I think I said a lot of embarrassing things during the last six days.” He cringes, replaying in his head what he remembered.

It’s Mycroft’s turn to laugh. “Everyone does that. Even the betas, and they don’t even have the cocktails of hormones that we omegas and alphas have.”

“Mm…” Sherlock sinks his head back down on to the pillow, dropping into oblivion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The crab fried rice that Sherlock eats at the beginning is amazing, but I am sure for him, Mycroft tastes infinitely better :P
> 
> Thanks for all the love :3


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is a mess. They deal with it.
> 
> Warning: Drugs

** February 2009 **

A baggie of the purest snow that London has to offer sits innocently on the coffee table.

_(5α,6α)-7,8-didehydro-4,5-epoxy-17-methylmorphinan-3,6-diol diacetate._

Sherlock knows he is a grade A idiot.

Beside the baggie, he has laid out sterile nitrile gloves, a spoon, surgical swabs, a syringe and needle, a lab-grade filter and a tourniquet.

But he isn’t an idiot because of the drugs – no, he has a broken radius – his forearm is currently encased in a cast. When he had sat down on the couch, he had realized that there was absolutely no way he could carry out his old ritual with one functioning upper extremity.

It also does not help that his preferred vein for IV injections is covered by the cast.

This day could not have gone worse.

One omega had died, and another one had been forcefully raped and bonded because Sherlock had not been able to reach the correct deductions in time. And arguably, the second omega now faced a fate that is considered to be worse than death, for bonding at the moment is an irreversible process. _Bonds only end at death._ At the conclusion of the case, there had been a full-on alpha brawl with the culprits, with flying fists, broken bones and black eyes.

And the worst part, is that Sherlock couldn’t stop thinking about the what ifs – one of those omegas could have been his brother. Although, he knows that his brother is perfectly capable of looking after himself, but he just couldn’t stop thinking.

He needs it to stop.

 _Fuck. His brother._ Sherlock remembers a promise he has made a year ago.

He grabs his phone, and types with one hand, albeit awkwardly.

_Help. SH_

His brother’s text comes seconds later.

_What is wrong? MH_

_Everything. SH_

_There is a bag of heroin in front of me, if you want to know how wrong things are going. SH_

_Stay put! I will be there in twenty. MH_

He wonders what important meeting his brother is currently sitting in now. It is only midafternoon.

Approximately fifteen minutes later, Sherlock hears the sound of a key in the door. His brother walks in, looking slightly harried. He watches as Mycroft surveys the scene, from the drug paraphernalia organized neatly on the battered table, to the illicit bag of white powder and then to Sherlock himself.

He expects his brother to reprimand him or to demand that he is to flush immediately the offending powder down the toilet, but Mycroft does neither. Instead, his brother strides to the couch and sits down beside him.

No one says a word for minutes.

Mycroft casually breaks the silence with an observation. “You have been working out, little brother.”

Sherlock blushes, completely caught off guard at the unexpected statement. “Well, you know, for cases.”

“I am sure.” Mycroft replies, although Sherlock can tell that his brother knows that he is lying. Despite the entire situation, there is a barely discernable appreciative expression on his brother’s face. “Although, it is a pity your forearm is out of commission.”

“It is a pity.” Sherlock sighs; he knows his brother is referring to his upcoming heat. He then says teasingly, “You will have to do all the work.”

“Although, in this context.” His brother grimaces, ignoring the tease, having had deduced Sherlock’s sequence of moves prior to his arrival. “I am glad your bone was broken.” Mycroft continues in a gentler tone, “You do know that you can come to me for problems other than drugs, do you? Nothing that happened this morning was your fault, Sherlock, I saw the reports.”

“If only I was faster. Or realized –“ Sherlock lets out a deep sigh and practically goes limp when his brother reaches over to his neck and starts massaging against his _glandulae minora_.

“You cannot save everyone, Sherlock.” Mycroft says firmly. “You can only do your best – and you are only human after all.”

“I know.” Sherlock acknowledges. “I just keep thinking –“

“That one of the omegas could have been me?” Mycroft finishes for him. “I can look after myself, little brother.” His brother says reassuringly. “I would let you scent me, but I am wearing the spray.” He adds, a little regretfully.

“Mm… This is good enough.” Sherlock is too busy enjoying his brother’s manipulations of his neck. Despite neither of them being in rut or heat, the scent glands are still able to release minuscule amounts of pleasurable chemicals.

An hour later, they both wordlessly get up. Sherlock grabs the heroin, pours the white powder down the toilet bowl and flushes it with his brother standing beside him.

.

.

** A week later… **

This time, Sherlock is able to notice the signs of _rut_ as they begin. It starts with feeling slightly too warm, with beads of perspiration dripping down his pale skin. He had removed his shirt earlier, in consideration for his forearm. A slow burn in from his loins simmer into awareness. He turns to his brother, who is pretending to read a book – _A Feast of_ Crows, but Sherlock can feel Mycroft’s eyes feast upon him instead, trying to steal subtle glances at his nude torso instead of contemplating the political instability of _Westeros_.

He quite likes it; the simple fact that his big brother finds him physically attractive.

With a few steps, he is next to his brother. He bends down to press his nose against his brother’s trapezius, inhaling the fragrant ripening scent of Mycroft – approaching heat. Sherlock has missed the delectable natural scent of his brother; Mycroft goes everywhere wearing that damnable spray for perfectly understandable reasons.

The sound of a book falling to the floor startles Sherlock, and he finds himself in his now-naked brother’s embrace. Mycroft leans forward to scent his _glandulae minora_. They stand there, nuzzling against each other’s necks, simply breathing.

“This feels surprisingly less desperate.” Sherlock observes quietly, more to himself than to his brother.

“All heats have different characters, little brother.” Mycroft explains. “Although if we wait enough, that can change abruptly.”

“How should we do this?” Sherlock asks, his voice clouding over with lust.

Mycroft thinks. Sherlock finds himself gently maneuvered into the armchair that his brother had been sitting in earlier. He feels Mycroft removing his belt and unzipping and pulling down his trousers, revealing his slowly stiffening cock. A surprised yelp comes out of his throat when Mycroft licks a stripe on his cock from glans to knot.

“Like you said last week, I will do all the work, little brother.” Mycroft winks at him.

Sherlock’s reply dies in his throat, as his brother takes him into his hot, moist mouth. Mycroft’s talented tongue swirls around his frenulum, and all he could do is moan his appreciation. Fingers slide betwixt his thighs and the expensive plush fabric of the armchair, a firm pressure reaching for his perineum, which Mycroft proceeds to caress – adding another dimension of sensation. Sherlock shouts out in shock and pleasure “Mycroft!” when his brother’s finger flicks lightly against territory traditionally forbidden – the alpha’s hole. He groans loudly when Mycroft repeats that sinful pleasure again – _societal norms could go fuck themselves_ – Sherlock thinks as a vague afterthought.

His prick slips out of his brother’s mouth, glistening with saliva; precum drips from his slit.

“Fuck, I need your cock.” Mycroft grunts, as he positions himself into the armchair.

His brother faces away from him, his legs flanking Sherlock’s thighs on the armchair, and he slowly lowers himself onto Sherlock’s cock with surprising yet breathtaking flexibility. It is possibly the most erotic thing that Sherlock has ever seen, and the sound that emits from his larynx when his brother’s cloacal opening engulfs the glans of his penis is guttural. It is beyond mesmerizing to watch and feel his cock disappear into Mycroft’s delicious heat – and Sherlock finds himself admiring the elegant lines of his brother’s back, and the pertness of his gluteus maximus.

When Mycroft’s bum finally becomes contiguous with Sherlock’s flesh, they both groan at the skin-to-skin contact. Sherlock reaches out with his uninjured arm, unable to resist touching the point of union between him and his brother. Mycroft shudders and moans when Sherlock’s fingers brush against the sensitized periphery of his hole – and before Sherlock was ready, his brother begins to move, undulating on his shaft.

“It feels so good…” Sherlock deciphers Mycroft’s breathless incoherence.

The pleasure builds within Sherlock, and he soon feels the need to thrust; to help his brother reach the brink – but alas he finds it difficult, especially with the use of only one arm for leverage. Mycroft’s previously graceful movements are starting to fracture; his breaths grow harsh and laboured as he starts fucking himself on Sherlock’s cock, desperately needing more. But, when Sherlock senses his own climax approaching with his knot beginning to swell, he instinctively reaches around for Mycroft’s smaller omega cock and gives his brother a stroke, wrenching a surprised cry of “Sherlock!” and a subsequent orgasm from Mycroft. The internal muscles of his brother contract most deliciously, inducing Sherlock to jerk his hips upwards thrice with all the force he could muster, before his knot finally locks them together. He collapses deeply into the armchair, pulling his brother along with him, as his prick releases spurt after spurt of come as he orgasms.

“Next time, when my forearm heals, I am going to lift you up and fuck you against the wall, brother.” Sherlock mumbles as soon as he was fit to speak.

Mycroft actually shivers, but he says dismissively. “What a typical alpha fantasy.”

Sherlock smirks knowingly, even though his brother cannot see it. “It’s a typical omega fantasy as well.” He bends his neck to nuzzle at his brother’s _glandulae pelagus_ , before pivoting his lips against his brother’s ear. “I know you want it.” He says in a sing-song manner.

“You are a menace.” Mycroft groans, but it comes out laden with more desire than his brother had intended.

.

.

The heat lasts three and a half days.

Sherlock thinks he’s acquitted himself quite well for an alpha with a broken forearm; his biggest piece of evidence being his brother happily snuggled up to him, snoring quietly. Around the periphery of the bed, lay pieces of Sherlock’s clothing, blankets and pillows in an arrangement called a _nest_. For the second heat, Mycroft had asked him to bring nesting materials that had his scent on it – things that he wouldn’t mind parting with – so Sherlock had spent a decent amount of time rolling and rubbing in bedsheets, blankets and whatever else trying to transfer his scent over the past days prior to his brother’s heat.

 _An unbonded omega will always have a nest. A nest is an omega’s private domain – a safe haven. It is a special spot for when an omega is stressed, ill, pregnant, in estrus or needs comfort. The only individuals permitted in an omega’s nest typically include immediate family members, close friends or their alpha._ _Materials involved in the construction of an omega’s nest can include blankets, pillows, plush toys and clothing amongst other items. If the omega has an alpha, the omega typically asks their alpha to scent-mark all the nesting materials._

_Traditionally, one of the later stages of alpha-omega courtship involves the provision of nesting resources by the alpha to be used in the omega’s permanent nest._

He immediately discards the last fact; he reasons that since Mycroft and he are immediate family, it makes perfect sense for Mycroft to ask him for nesting material.

Sherlock goes back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the support!  
> We are one chapter away from the beginning of ASiP, which I cannot wait to write haha!  
> And I have no idea why I wanted to write broken forearm sex so badly. I have problems, clearly.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Sherlock accidentally ups the courtship game.

** July 2009**

“Brother, why in hell do we still go to these things?” Sherlock grumbles to Mycroft as they get into the waiting car for the trip back to London from who-knows-where in the idyllic English countryside; he really couldn’t be arsed to bother knowing where.

“Because Mummy would have our hides if we didn’t, little brother.” Mycroft grimaces with equal disdain, while the driver shuts the door behind them.

Sherlock immediately loosens his tie with one hand, while the other is occupied with a lap-sized, high-quality plush Bengal tiger – _Panthera tigris tigris._ He unconsciously runs his hand in the ridiculously soft fur and allows his wrist to trail along – scent-marking the toy.

“The omega is always pregnant during these things.” Sherlock observes, “Last year it was young Cousin Ansley, and this year it is middle-aged Uncle Xerxes. Why don’t they bother with contraception?”

Mycroft slightly flushes. He explains anyways. “The bonding ceremony – as you know, little brother – is merely a formality these days. Many pairs choose to forego them. But, the alpha-omega pairs that do choose to undergo the ceremony usually have bonded months ago.”

“But that doesn’t –“ Sherlock does not see the connection.

“Think about what is in the typical contraceptive.” Mycroft interrupts.

Sherlock knows that his brother gets an injection of progestogen every three months, specifically formulated for male omegas. He has only found that out recently; he has trusted his brother implicitly in regard to the details involving their arrangement. “Hormones.” Sherlock says.

“They say that when an alpha and an omega bonds, it is the most intense and pleasurable experience that either of them will ever experience in their lives. And, it is known that for an omega, contraceptives do take an edge off the heats – so many choose to go off them during the bonding heat.” Mycroft says with a detached air. “Otherwise, there would be a lot less children running around.”

“So, purely hedonistic reasons.” Sherlock muses. He could appreciate that. Shrewdly, he asks, “Would you do such a thing, brother?”

Mycroft actually blushes, completely caught off-guard. He takes seconds to compose himself. “No, I have never considered it.”

 _Liar._ Sherlock observes. But deciding that he has won enough information for the moment, he wisely lets the matter drop.

They spend a few moments looking at the English countryside before Mycroft says mischievously, turning the tables, “So, little brother, I have never seen you participate in the _Trials of an Alpha_ before at a bonding ceremony until today.”

Sherlock groans, partially in embarrassment. The _Trials of an Alpha_ are a tradition for the unbonded Alphas at a bonding ceremony; a primitive ritual for the Alphas to show off their virility to the unbonded omegas. This particular rendition had involved Alphas stripping down to their undergarments, followed by a wrestling competition – which Sherlock had handily won; he has learned how to formally fight for his cases – and a terrible game of Chase the Pig – which in Sherlock’s opinion borders on animal cruelty. A pig was covered in soap and water from head to curly tail, and all the alphas were required to chase after the swine usually in a fenced off muddy field. And the winner was the one who caught and presented it to the judge first. _Bloody stupid tradition._ He had been soaked with mud after, and someone else had caught the bloody pig. The prizes for winning at these trials are known as tokens. Tokens are meant to be given to an omega – such as the luxurious plush tiger that currently rests in his lap.

“Never again.” Sherlock rubs at his leg, where there is a nicely forming bruise acquired from slipping in the mud.

“I don’t think I will ever forget it.” Mycroft says with great amusement. “It was worth enduring the otherwise interminable and monotonous weekend.”

“Well, I am glad someone enjoyed it.” Sherlock says dryly. He has a distinct impression that his brother rather liked watching him naked, sweaty and dirty.

When the car finally arrives at Sherlock’s flat a few hours later, Sherlock takes the tiger that he has thoroughly scented with his _radial glands_ and drops it unceremoniously in Mycroft’s lap before exiting the car.

He does not miss the brief look of astonishment that his brother levels at him.

.

.

** Four days later… **

There is nothing delicate or gradual about this variation of heat.

Sherlock has his brother brutally pinned against the surface of his own desk –  his grasp on Mycroft’s shoulders strong enough to leave colourful evidence that will last and ache for days afterwards; he is furiously licking at his brother’s _glandulae pelagus_. His brother writhes and shakes almost violently underneath him, issuing desperate noises from his throat. Sherlock transitions his licks to mouthing the highly sensitive skin – even in the throes of his rut, Sherlock is careful to cover his teeth with his lips – permitting himself to only scrape his teeth against his brother’s delectable neck with a soft layer of flesh separating them.

“God, you taste so good, brother.” Sherlock pants out before resuming his attentions to the other side of Mycroft’s neck; he sucks hard enough to leave hickeys behind – the creation of each one causes his brother to either yelp or mewl; little decadent appetizers which only fueled Sherlock’s arousal further.

He could feel Mycroft grind his hips against his groin, seeking more friction, while struggling to wrap his trembling legs against Sherlock’s back in order to gain some leverage over the situation. Sherlock slowly, but deliberately drags his hands down with the hint of fingernails, from his brother’s shoulders, through his lightly furred chest, against the soft appealing roundness of his abdomen and down to Mycroft’s pelvis, where his brother’s cock stood erect, drops of precum like dewdrops glistening at the tip.

Without much thought, Sherlock slips out of the clumsy embrace of his brother’s lower extremities, while keeping his hands firm on his brother’s bucking hips and opens his mouth wide to devour his brother’s omega prick without preamble, sucking as if his life depended on it.

His brother lets out a yell that could be heard kilometres away.

Eventually, Sherlock releases his brother’s cock from his mouth, and he licks across Mycroft’s bollocks, to the rim of his cloaca. He laps against his brother’s opening, tasting his brother’s heavenly wetness, feeling Mycroft’s entire body quiver.

He could hear his brother attempting to say something, but it is too garbled for comprehension. But, the language of his brother’s body – Mycroft is recklessly throwing his bum wantonly towards Sherlock in a way that only Sherlock’s hands are preventing his brother from sliding completely off the desk – could be interpreted as _please, please, please stop teasing and fuck me._

So, Sherlock does. He lines the glans of his cock against his brother’s hole and thrusts directly in, not allowing his brother any chance to adapt to the stretch. Mycroft howls, mostly in pleasure. Sherlock stops when he is buried to the hilt, and when his brother starts rolling his own hips, Sherlock takes over, pounding straight into his brother’s tight heat in a beastly fashion – running purely on his primitive alpha drive.

The sounds are obscene; the slaps of flesh against flesh, the percussive thuds when Sherlock’s thighs come into contact with the unforgiving dark wood of the desk, the crescendoing of Mycroft’s desperate whimpers and moans which resembles a distorted chant of _please, please, please_ , and Sherlock’s own shattered breaths due to his soon-to-be unsustainable exertions fill the room where the proposal for this insane coupling was initially made, eighteen months ago.

It is not long at all when Sherlock realizes that orgasm is imminent, and his thrusts become erratic when his knot begins to swell. He struggles to maintain control of his fatigued shaking hips, managing to fuck his brother twice more, before his knot binds them together, spending the first load of his orgasm. His brother comes almost instantaneously, his scream nearly loud enough to shatter the nearby windows, and Sherlock moans and shudders loudly through his own orgasmal aftershocks, helped by his brother’s rhythmic contractions around his cock.

Drained, Sherlock collapses against his brother’s come-sticky torso, nuzzling his face against his neck, enjoying the pheromones and scent wafting from Mycroft’s glands. His brother looks completely destroyed and debauched.

When he regains some of his strength and sharpness, Sherlock looks dismayed by the wreckage he has wrought on his brother’s fair skin, although his inner alpha preens at such a possessive display of marking – hickeys are liberally distributed on Mycroft’s neck, shoulders and chest while marks from his hands left vicious bruises on his brother’s shoulders and pelvis.

Sherlock reaches over to press his lips against the worst of the damage, contritely.

Mycroft shakes his head weakly and shrugs, “It happens, little brother.”

“You are going to have to go to work like that.” Sherlock eyes the possessive marks located on his brother’s neck, near his larynx. “And, this is only the first round.”

“I am allowed a sex life.” Mycroft says in a matter-of-fact manner. He then accuses, “You didn’t fuck me against the wall!”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, gesturing to the walls of the study which all had some sort of furniture or object blocking access to potential fucking surfaces, “There’s no space here, brother – and I don’t think any of us were in any coherent state to leave the room without hurting ourselves.” He cheekily grins at his brother, “And besides, I thought you didn’t care for such plebeian alpha fantasies.”

Mycroft sighs exasperatedly, both at his brother’s reply and upon realizing the extent of the devastation spread around his formerly pristine study.

.

.

At the end of the heat, three days later, Sherlock is incredibly sore. Between him and his brother, they have amassed an impressive collection of bruises. Mycroft is currently sniffing at his neck, simply content to take in Sherlock’s pheromones.

The Bengal tiger sits regally next to his brother’s pillow; a place of honour in Mycroft’s personal domain.

Sherlock has been remiss in regard to the meaning behind tokens. It has always been a problem with him, doing impulsive gestures without thoroughly thinking through his actions.

When he had gone back to his flat after the bonding ceremony, he had to go read up on what he had done.

_Tokens were traditionally souvenirs from feats of valour. In the days of old, young unbonded alphas were wanderers – the questors, the knights, and the adventurers of the land and sea. If such an alpha fancied an omega to the point of wanting to bond with them, they would give a token to their omega – something hard-won, valuable, or with sentimental value – a promise that they would return for their omega after their adventuring days were done._

_In the modern day, it has become the custom for Bonding Ceremonies to include what is termed the Trials of an Alpha to celebrate this old tradition. Tokens are rewarded for alphas that emerge victorious at these trials. If an alpha fancied an omega who was watching them perform at the Trials, they could state their intentions by gifting the omega with their prize, just as how the alphas of old used to._

To be extra thorough, Sherlock had done an internet search, to see what the popular opinion on the matter was. To summarize, the gift of a token is an incredibly romantic gesture; the stuff of fairytales.

He had facepalmed, drank an entire bottle of whiskey and gone straight to bed after his research. Alcohol is the only vice he allows himself to indulge in these days – he had given up the cigarettes in the favour of stamina during sex.

There is no use denying it now – Sherlock muses grimly – he and his brother have both been guilty of performing courtship gestures over the last eighteen months.

But since Mycroft has not brought up the subject, neither would he.

Sentiment is a dangerous word that he knows neither are ready for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the <3.
> 
> Frequency of posting chapters is going to decline over the next two weeks.  
> T-12 days till my board exam!
> 
> Edit: Had to change the years around. Realized I read it wrong when I was reading the chronology while I was doing my research ugh.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has a new flatmate. Mycroft is unhappy.

** February 2010 **

“You even smell like him!” Mycroft sniffs delicately at Sherlock’s _glandulae minora_ in dismay.

The alpha in Sherlock feels awful for causing _his_ omega’s distress. Before heading over to Mycroft’s, he has tried to rid himself of any potential offending scents by scrubbing himself in a hot shower with the strongest soap he owned for over thirty minutes.

 _Omegas close to heat tend to be oversensitive to smells, particularly if they trigger negative emotions. Typical emotional triggers involve fear, sadness, anger and jealousy amongst others._  

Unfortunately, Sherlock now shares a flat with an omega at 221B Baker Street. It is inevitable that the scent of his new flatmate, Dr. John H. Watson, would permeate deep into his flesh, even if said omega uses the beta scent spray religiously during the day.

“Might we expect a happy announcement soon?” Mycroft asks unhappily, his voice taking on a decisively snippy tone.

Sherlock is completely out of his depth.

He is not in the habit of comforting hormonal pre-heat omegas, even if the omega in question happens to be his usually brilliant and rational brother. From his own first-hand experiences on cases, he is very much aware that saying the wrong thing to an omega in such a delicate situation would set things off into the deep end.

This is not a game he could win.

Figuring that words and logic would be exercises in futility in this volatile situation, Sherlock embraces his brother instead, hoping that Mycroft would not push him away. His brother does not, and Sherlock nuzzles his nose and cheek against Mycroft’s _glandulae pelagus_ at the familiar junction of his brother’s neck and shoulder. He feels his brother relax against him, as the chemicals released from the stimulated gland enter Mycroft’s systemic circulation.

“No, brother mine.” Sherlock tilts his head slightly to whisper into his brother’s ear. “I turned him down during the first night we were flatmates – told him I was married to my work.”

Sherlock isn’t even a hundred percent sure that John had been asking him out that day – but regardless, the former army doctor has ended up with a female alpha that he sees regularly after their flat share begun.

Mycroft huffs in response, but he bends his own neck to tenderly run the tip of his nose against Sherlock’s _glandulae minora_ , before proceeding to lick, mouth and suck at the sensitive area. Sherlock sighs when the initial pulse of hormones hit his bloodstream; in the haze of pleasure, he is vaguely aware of his brother deftly manipulating his body onto the bed a few steps away, and efficiently stripping his clothes off.

A whimper escapes from Sherlock when Mycroft’s teeth scrape against the delicate epidermis of his neck, followed by a yelp of pleasure accompanied by an involuntary arch of his spine when his brother deliberately bites down. The familiar tingling warmth of rut spreads like wildfire from Sherlock’s nether regions, as his brother continues to debase his flesh; Mycroft leaves behind in his wake, marks that would turn into possessive blooms of colour all over the alabaster skin of his chest, shoulders and neck in the days to come.

Sherlock tries to move his hips, needing to satisfy his urge to grind, craving friction, but Mycroft’s knees clamp down against his thighs in a vicelike grip; Sherlock immediately comprehends that the present proceedings are not for him to decide; it would be at his brother’s prerogative.

The moan that escapes from him is loud when his brother rolls one of his nipples in his fingers, and turns lascivious, when Mycroft pinches down on the nub none-too-gently.

“Gorgeous.” Mycroft appraises approvingly.

There is a determined glint in his brother’s blue eyes. Sherlock is in awe of the force of will that Mycroft imposes on himself – suppressing his primitive heat-induced instincts in order to do things to Sherlock; to take him apart.

“Beautiful.” There is a smidge of adoration creeping into his brother’s husky voice, as he repeats his actions to Sherlock’s other nipple, eliciting uncontrollable shudders and a cry of ecstasy.

The pressure disappears from around his thighs, but before Sherlock is cognizant enough to take advantage of his temporary freedom, he emits a startled gasp when Mycroft suddenly sinks down onto the glans of his erect cock, engulfing him in a tight delicious warmth.

His brother smirks at him – in an ‘ _I am glad I can still surprise you, little brother’_ way. Mycroft slowly impales himself on Sherlock’s shaft, stretching out the pleasure of penetration – letting out a sigh of relief. Sherlock is dying for more; for the first time since their arrangement has begun he has absolutely no leverage over the situation.

Again, Sherlock tries to move – managing only to wiggle his hips; his futile efforts accompany pleading whimpers and whines that make Mycroft smile dangerously as if he had just successfully toppled a government in some minor country somewhere.

Mycroft continues to fuck himself leisurely on Sherlock’s prick, uncaring of his brother’s predicament below.

“My… please…” Sherlock finds himself resorting to the art of begging after minutes of this exquisite torture had elapsed.

Satisfied with Sherlock’s surrender, Mycroft proceeds to accelerate the pace, finally giving into his baser instincts. It forces Sherlock to quickly fist the surrounding sheets in his hands as an anchor to hang on to for dear life while his brother rides him furiously into the bed; simultaneously, some miraculous minute portion of Sherlock’s mind that has not been reduced to a mess of need manages to take in the sublime vision of Mycroft practically bouncing on his cock – the alpha within him is pleased that _his_ omega is finally taking what he needs.

It is a delight that Sherlock is sure he would never forget; a sight that is seared into the depths of his Mind Palace, forever.

The familiar tendrils of orgasm build up in his loins, with every stroke Mycroft takes.

“Alpha!” As breathless Mycroft has become over the last few minutes, there is still a steel edge of command in his voice. “Fucking knot me – now!”

Sherlock is not surprised at all when he feels his knot swell at the base of his prick, not daring to disobey such a command. His brother proceeds to take in his growing knot with every vigorous fuck, and Sherlock soon feels his orgasms rip violently through him, ejaculating a few times deep into his brother while screaming out “Mycroft!”.

When he regains his equilibrium, Sherlock becomes aware of his brother’s hand on his chest, smearing and massaging sticky come all over his chest, neck and thoroughly against his _glandulae minora_.

From an alpha’s standpoint, Sherlock knows he could not be any more physically claimed by an omega.

“Feeling possessive, are we?” Sherlock asks bemusedly.

Mycroft leans down to nuzzle at his neck, licking apologetically at some of the more exuberant marks. He replies simply, “Just reminding you that there is another omega in your life, little brother.”

 _Who needs you._ Sherlock could read the rest of the unfinished sentence in the brief flicker that crosses his brother’s irises. “As if I could ever forget.” He shakes his head.

“Are you really married to your work?” Mycroft asks, cautiously.

“Are we really arch-enemies?” Sherlock recalls a conversation he had with John.

His brother pushes himself up, pulling Sherlock’s knotted and oversensitive cock with him, sending a frisson that is parts discomfort and pleasure through his nerves. Sherlock whimpers at the sensation as Mycroft reaches over to pull him up into an embrace that is more for lovers than for arch-enemies or brothers.

.

.

Four days of heat later, Sherlock finds himself curled up against his brother. They spend their time scenting each other, rubbing their noses against glands and dragging their glands across each other’s skin.

“I know we never agreed to being exclusive…” Sherlock exercises his vocal cords for the first time today, watching as a discomfited look flit across Mycroft’s face. “But, I do want you to know that there has not been anyone else in the two years since this arrangement started.”

It has been clear to Sherlock that not talking about things were only going to lead to agony – case in point – his brother’s jealousy of John, complete with that warehouse stunt last month. Because of the lack of exclusivity in the original agreement, Sherlock has been getting blood draws every four months for sexually transmitted infections per his brother’s request – within guidelines for gay alphas and betas.

“I know.” Mycroft says, but Sherlock can see the relief in the microexpressions of his brother’s face.

“Be honest with me.” Sherlock says firmly, while gently grabbing onto his brother’s wrist. “You want that – exclusivity?”

“Do you have any idea what kind of commitment you are making, brother?” Mycroft asks.

“I have some semblance of an idea, yes.” Sherlock says dryly, “But I wasn’t asking about me, I was asking about you. And if we can’t be honest in bed, it really doesn’t bode well for any sort of relationship between us, brother.”

Mycroft sighs contemplatively and deeply.

Sherlock looks at him pointedly, still holding onto his brother’s wrist.

“Yes. Of course, I want that.” Mycroft says in a rush. “But, why in hell would you want that? Sherlock… you could have any omega you wanted. There were many watching you during the Trials at Uncle Xerxes' bonding ceremony all those months ago.”

Sherlock waves his free hand. “Dull, brother. Who did I give my token to at the end, anyways?”

His brother reaches for the Bengal with a hand and cradles it possessively against his chest.

“And I know what you feel about bonding.” Sherlock continues, “Even if you never want it, it’s all fine.”

“Sherlock…” Mycroft gazes at him in wonder. “Brother mine.” His brother pounces and captures him in a firm hug.

And presses a chaste kiss against Sherlock’s cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3 Thanks for all the support!
> 
> This came out quick.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Sherlock is late.

** July 2010 **

_Fuck._

Sherlock looks down at the screen; he has been remiss in checking his phone for the past few hours.

_Brother mine, where are you? MH_

_Heat is starting. MH_

_It’s early this time. MH_

_Need you. MH_

_Sherlock. MH_

_Please. MH_

_Fucking Moriarty._

Sherlock runs out of the bathroom, where he had just spent the last twenty minutes scrubbing off the foul stench of chlorine from his person. Throwing on the closest ensemble of clean clothes he could find in his room, he bolts out of the flat – ignoring John’s concerned inquiries and the newly delivered Thai takeout sitting out on the kitchen table.

He hails a taxi.

.

.

The luscious aroma of his omega in heat greets Sherlock’s sense of olfaction as he strides into the house. Shutting the door behind him, he calmly walks into the nearby bathroom to wash his hands. The signs of sympathetic arousal dawn upon him – the raised heart rate, the perspiration and the dilated pupils evidenced from a quick glance at the mirror.

His palm rests on the patch he wears on his upper arm underneath his shirt sleeve; a potent alpha suppressant he has taken to wearing on cases and other potentially dangerous situations. There have been increasing incidences of date rape substances being used to induce vulnerable omegas into premature heat and to entrap alphas into precarious situations.

Without the suppressant, Sherlock knows he would have gone straight into rut as soon as he entered Mycroft’s house, especially since his inner alpha seems to have recognized his brother as his omega now.    

Deciding that he would like to keep his mental faculties intact for longer, he keeps the patch on.

Heading up the stairs, he could deduce from the complex scents that his brother has gone into heat approximately two hours ago – exactly when the nasty business with Moriarty had been going down, which matches up with the timestamps of his brother’s texts.

Well, to be fair, Sherlock had lured the consulting criminal, but considering that his brother wasn’t supposed to go into heat until next week, he had thought he had been in the clear – evidently omega biology is not a precise science.

He walks into the bedroom, where his naked brother is rutting desperately against the sheets. A sheen of perspiration covers Mycroft’s fair skin.

“God, brother.” Sherlock kicks his shoes off and crawls into bed. “Look at you.”

His brother makes an intelligible noise, interrupting his own flow of grunts as he grinds against the bed.

“Do you not have toys?” Sherlock knows that omegas often have a stash of sex toys just in case they aren’t able to find a trusted alpha in time for a heat. Of course, it would not be enough – it never is, but it would be better than nothing.

“Wanted… you.” Mycroft struggles with the words. “Please. Sher…”

Sherlock starts freeing himself of his clothes.

“What do you want, brother mine?” Sherlock lowers the pitch of his voice – it comes out almost like a growl. “Tell me.”

“You.” Mycroft breathes.

Sherlock lets his hand caress the smooth backside of his brother, before ducking his head down to drop an open-mouthed kiss against his brother’s _glandulae pelagus_.

 _Apparently, we kiss now._ Sherlock thinks.

“What exactly do you want me to do to you, brother mine?” Sherlock rephrases his question.

“Sher…” Mycroft wriggles his bum in a most enticing fashion. His brother takes a deep breath before concentrating on the difficult task of stringing some syllables together. “Fuck me... Take me... Make me yours.”

“Do you trust me?” Sherlock asks before leaning over to pepper kisses on his brother’s throat, cheek and at one corner of his brother’s lips.

“Always.” Mycroft breathes deep. “Please…”

“On your hands and knees, brother.” Sherlock commands, in a voice he rarely uses.

It is a tone often referred to as the _Alpha’s voice_ ; it is imbued in innate authority. Betas, weaker alphas and omegas often have an urge to obey when commands are issued with this voice. _From an natural selection perspective, the Alpha’s voice has been used to keep family units out of danger, but in the modern era, it is typically applied to children and omegas. The majority of omegas derive pleasure from obeying their alpha during sex. It should be noted that this power can be and has been abused._

It is something that Sherlock had wanted to try on his brother, although he is slightly worried that this might fall under the compelling restriction that is part of their agreement.

Despite Sherlock’s worries, Mycroft gets up albeit shakily from his prone position. His big brother gracefully positions himself on his knees and hands. Despite Mycroft’s submission, there is pride in how his brother holds his head, and in how he spreads his knees, displaying his genitalia, which are raining slick all over the bedsheets.

It is a beautiful sight.

“Stunning, My.” Sherlock whispers in Mycroft’s ear, enjoying the barely perceptible quivers going through his brother’s body. “My gorgeous omega.” He exerts a light pressure underneath his brother’s chin with his fingers, turning Mycroft’s head so that he could kiss him directly on the lips.

 _Their first kiss._ Some sentimental part of Sherlock’s brain registers the fact.

He kisses his brother again and allows one of his hands to tenderly caress Mycroft’s face; his fingers play with his brother’s dark hair and apply the right amount of pressure on Mycroft’s scalp, causing his brother to hiss in pleasure at the touch. Kisses are applied to the various freckles on his brother’s back, as Sherlock runs his hands through his brother’s lightly furred chest and abdomen, devoting some time to rememorizing and worshiping the lovely contours of Mycroft’s body.

“How fucking wet you are.” Sherlock catches some of the heavenly slick in his fingers. “Taste yourself, brother.” He offers his fingers to Mycroft, who promptly opens his mouth and sucks at Sherlock’s fingers as if the digits are a divine offering – Sherlock groans, as if his brother’s mouth is sucking somewhere else, much lower.

Grabbing both of his brother’s gluteus maximi, Sherlock spreads Mycroft’s cheeks and proceeds to lap at the copious amount of decadent fluid leaking from his brother’s cloaca and perianal glands. Mycroft shudders, writhes and trembles violently under the onslaught of Sherlock’s tongue.

“Please.” His brother whimpers.

“On your back.” Sherlock demands, suddenly needing to knot Mycroft in a position so that they could be face-to-face.

He gets up from the bed.

Mycroft rolls on his back, spreading his thighs apart.

“I will take you now.” Sherlock states, as he lines his cock with his brother’s hole. “The last two hours of your heat will be nothing but a bad dream when I am done with you, My.”

He pushes into Mycroft with one fluid stroke; his brother cries out in both ecstasy and relief, while Sherlock finally rips the patch off his arm. The feeling of rut builds up like an explosion; the patch had been a dam barely holding it in. He fucks his brother with everything he has – pounding straight into his brother’s most needy and greedy hole. The intensifying feral noises emerging from Mycroft’s throat further spur on Sherlock’s efforts in a vicious cycle.

Just as Sherlock is feeling the lactic acid accumulation in his weary muscles – his knot begins to swell. Mycroft yowls each time Sherlock’s growing knot rams against his prostate and Sherlock groans with pure relief when his knot finally locks them together – climaxing and spilling his seed deep. His brother comes with an earthshattering cry that causes Sherlock to wince as he sinks bonelessly against Mycroft’s chest, feeling the sticky ejaculate smearing against his torso, as he rides out the aftershocks of his climaxes.

They lie there, intertwined, accompanied by the sounds of their breaths.

“You came.” Mycroft nuzzles fondly against Sherlock’s _glandulae minora_.

“Of course, I would.” Sherlock says. “I am only sorry I was late.” He decides this is not the time to talk shop. His brother would not be pleased with his reckless behaviour with Moriarty.

“I have forgotten how bad it was.” His brother grimaces. “To not have an alpha.”

“I am so sorry, My.” Sherlock presses his lips against Mycroft’s _glandulae pelagus_ with genuine repentance. “What can I do to make it up to you?”

“Kiss me.” Mycroft requests, “I want one that I will actually remember. Not one in the mists of heat.”

“Done.” Sherlock wraps his arms around Mycroft’s chest, leans over to rub his nose against his brother’s before tenderly brushing his lips against his omega’s.

They spend the next half hour experimenting with kisses.  

.

.

Three days of heat later, Sherlock presses a kiss against his brother’s cheek, before dipping his head down to scent the _glandulae pelagus_ , feeling the tension in his crampy muscles dissipate.  

“I liked it.” Mycroft states; he blushes slightly, “When you did that thing with your voice.”

“I read about it.” Sherlock explains. “Something about omegas and crossed neural circuitry with pleasure and submission.”

“I’ve had other alphas try and do that to me.” Mycroft reminisces, “It never worked out well. I would resist, and they would be so unhappy. They find it so emasculating. ”

“You didn’t trust them. I would have stopped if you didn’t enjoy it.” Sherlock cuddles up closer to his brother, slightly mad at all the other previous idiot alphas that his brother had the misfortune to bed. “I promise I won’t use it for nefarious means.”

“Use it sparingly, little brother.” Mycroft sniffs at Sherlock’s _glandulae minora_. “It is a part of my nature that I find hard to accept.”

“Understood, brother dear.” Sherlock nods.

“So.” Mycroft’s tone turns businesslike and shrewd, “Why did you leave your omega aching and desperate for your knot for two hours, brother mine?”

Sherlock’s inner alpha cringes, as he proceeds to explain everything to his brother.

After all, there are to be no secrets kept between them in bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the lovely support!
> 
> A quick reminder:  
> Italics: Sherlock's thoughts  
> Italics with initials ex. MH, SH: texts  
> Underlined words: Alpha Voice 
> 
> Also, I think the TGG takes place in April according to the producers, but for the purposes of this story its in July ha. 
> 
> As a side, I am working on a fantasy AU verse oneshot holmescest fic. Might come out within the next two weeks. :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where communication is difficult.

** February 2011 **

“You were in Karachi.”

It is posed as a statement, not a question.

Sherlock sighs deeply as he cuts into the tender fatty flesh of the miso-marinated sablefish – or rather known more commonly by its misnomer, the black cod. He spears a piece, savouring the delicate interplay between sweetness and sharpness of the marinade, letting the morsel melt in his mouth; Mycroft rarely cooks, but when he does it is Michelin star worthy.

“I was.” Sherlock replies, continuing to eat. He tips some excellent Gewürztraminer from the wine glass into his mouth to wash everything down. Really, he should have known better that his brother would track his movements outside the country as well as in.

“Sentiment?” His brother says the taboo word with a grimace that is hard to read.

“Maybe.” Sherlock proceeds carefully, anticipating treacherous waters ahead. “But, not the way you think it is.”

“Is that so?” Mycroft quirks an expressive eyebrow, but Sherlock catches a flicker of uncertainty in his brother’s eyes.

It is enlightening; the split-second tell informs Sherlock about all he needs to know about his brother’s feelings and thoughts about the affair of _the Woman_. The worry, the anger, the jealousy and the regret. _How could you risk your life like that to go save her? After everything she has done against us. Did you love her, little brother? Do you regret promising exclusivity to me?_

“It was the least I could do.” Sherlock finishes the last heavenly bite. “For a good game.” He adds pointedly. “There is worth in sentiment even if it is unreciprocated, brother mine.” _And both of us would be in a deeper hole, if Irene did not wear her sentiment on her sleeve, or rather – her phone._

“This coming from someone who once said, ‘Love is a dangerous disadvantage’?” Mycroft drinks deeply from his own wineglass, before reaching over to uncover the last dish on the dining table, a freshly baked key lime pie. Grabbing a knife, his brother slices two servings and pushes one on a plate towards Sherlock, who takes it.

Sherlock takes a nibble; it is the perfect end to the meal. “I never said I was not capable of love. Merely that it has its disadvantages. And if I do recall correctly, brother, did you not say ‘All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage.’ not too long ago?”

A hush falls upon the room.

 _A stalemate._ Sherlock thinks as they both turn their attentions to their pie.

Mycroft says quietly, “I never said I did not care, little brother…”

“I know.” Sherlock acknowledges, knowing all too well that his brother does indeed care.

“Unreciprocated…” His brother says contemplatively as he revisits a previous utterance in the conversation; there is almost a wistful expression on his face.

“I do not love Irene Adler, brother. She was a fascinating antagonist, but no more.” Sherlock decides to clear the air, once and for all.

Mycroft simply nods; he offers. “I believe she is in San Francisco right now.”

“And there, she should stay. If she knows what is good for her.” Sherlock says in a grim and final manner, hoping that it would be the last word on the sordid subject.

He gets up to help his brother clear the table.

.

.

He catches his brother later in the evening, wrapping his arms around Mycroft’s slim waist, noting that his brother has unintentionally lost weight again. Tilting his neck, he sniffs at his brother’s _glandulae pelagus_ , refamiliarizing himself with Mycroft’s natural scent. Sherlock has always liked the way his brother smelled, but over the past three years, the scent has come to represent things to Sherlock: intimacy, happiness, and dare he say it – unbrotherly sentiment. He lightly brushes his lips over the gland, causing his brother to sigh as the initial release of hormones enters the blood. With a deft move, Sherlock has his brother against the wall, where he tenderly presses his lips against Mycroft’s. He feels his brother kiss back.

“You are going to trigger my heat like this.” Mycroft informs.

“I thought that was the point.” Sherlock replies. “But, I rather enjoy this without feeling the need to shag you against every flat surface.”

 _If only they could do this more often. Outside of heat._ Sherlock thinks, as they exchange simple kisses. But, he knows they can’t – not with Moriarty running around; the endgame is approaching. It is bad enough that the consulting criminal thinks that he and John are an item. He used to live for this – the games; the thrills – but now, he knows that there is something else he could live for.

And if he is lucky, to be allowed to care for.

But he won’t tempt fate by voicing his innermost desires; the only solace he has is that he can physically express his feelings within the safety of an arrangement of convenience.

His rut comes gradually; a slow burn. It runs through his arteries and veins; it perfuses every particle of his being. He runs a casual hand down Mycroft’s chest, enjoying the texture of soft hair and skin. By smell, touch and sight, he senses his brother’s own heat bloom. The kissing grows fervent; it wipes away six months of misunderstandings – reestablishing the reality of commitments they had offered to each other freely over the last years.

_The physicality of intimacy has always been easier between them._

His fingers, of their own accord, map every inch of his brother’s torso with caresses. Soon, he slips down to his knees, and strokes Mycroft’s lovely omega prick before taking it in his mouth – enjoying his brother’s groans. Swirling his tongue around Mycroft’s frenulum, and caressing the inner thighs of his brother, Sherlock enjoys the noises of appreciation his omega makes.

“Sherlock, please.” His brother gasps, as Sherlock reaches over to tease and finger Mycroft’s wet hole.

“Put your arms around my neck, My.” Sherlock says as his brother’s dripping cock slips out of mouth. He stands up and rests his hands on Mycroft’s hips. He touches his lips to his brother’s . “Trust me.”

When he feels his brother’s arms encircling him, he picks up Mycroft by the thighs and spreads them, eliciting a yelp of surprise. With the help of the wall, Sherlock thrusts into his brother’s welcoming heat without warning, causing Mycroft to groan at the sudden fullness; a welcome mixture of pleasure and relief.

“Just filling an old promise, brother.” He smiles impishly at Mycroft’s breathlessness as he continues his hip movements, making sure each stroke brushes just right against his brother’s prostate.

He keeps the tempo at a moderato, quite content to catalogue the expressions and noises that his brother makes while being fucked against a wall; Sherlock would never get enough of this – his immaculate and cerebral big brother with his hair in disarray, his flushed cheeks and his kiss-swollen lips, lost to everything around him, except for the pursuit of his own pleasure; for the satisfaction of such a primal urge.

“More!” Mycroft manages to gasp, “I want more!”

On a whim, Sherlock steps away from the support of the wall, holding on to Mycroft’s hips, while his brother’s legs are supported by arms. Mycroft moans loudly when gravity impales him further. Groaning at his exertions, Sherlock proceeds to fuck his brother as hard as he could manage in such a position – making use of all those muscles that he has spent developing over the last three years. The rut, which had been simmering comfortably in the background, makes itself known when Sherlock feels his impending orgasm creep up on him.

“Oh fuck, brother.” Sherlock pants, “I can’t last much longer.”

“Knot me then.” Mycroft cries raggedly in desperation. “Knot… me…”

Sherlock pushes his brother back upon the wall and summoning whatever reserves of energy left in his beginning-to-fatigue muscles, thrusts with abandon in the chase of his own completion, feeling his knot starting to swell. With each stroke, he grunts, and is answered back by an increasingly needier moan from Mycroft.

“My!” He cries when he climaxes, his knot joining them together.

His brother follows him with a cry, spilling all over Sherlock’s bare chest. Sherlock sighs as Mycroft milks each pulse of seed as it spurts out of his prick. At the end, Sherlock is sitting on the floor with his bare back against the wall, his limbs still aquiver; his mind blissfully blank.

Mycroft leans his head to nuzzle at Sherlock’s glandulae minora fondly.

.

.

They are cuddling in bed five heat-filled days later. Neither have uttered a word since they had woken up from their previous nap, happy to non-verbally communicate with kisses, caresses and meaningful looks that express more than they are currently capable of discussing at this stage in their lives.

Sherlock rests his head on his brother’s wonderfully furry chest; he wants more of this – lazy days curled up in bed together. His eyes catch the stunning blue irises of Mycroft’s and he sees some of his own thoughts reflected back.

_I want it too, brother mine._

But, Moriarty had promised to burn the heart out of him.

Whatever that means.

There are too many interpretations.

It is safer to pretend that he and his brother have a troubled fraternal relationship. He has never denied it when people assume John and he are an alpha-omega couple; after all people see what they want to see. Nor, did he deny any veiled suggestions about his time with Irene Adler. Alpha-alpha couples, although considered risqué at this day and age, are becoming more accepted in the public sphere.

Sherlock will enjoy whatever time he is given here, and the meetings that he and Mycroft have to strictly talk shop.

There is a storm brewing.

A fall.

“Mm… brother mine, please don’t sully the bed with such ghastly thoughts.” Mycroft admonishes with affection.

Sherlock leans over to kiss him, leaving his worries behind him, for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the support <3  
> Whoops, accidentally posted this to my other story -_-.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock visits Mycroft the morning before he leaves.

** June 2011 **

A sense of unreality descends upon Sherlock as he creeps into his brother’s house past midnight. Maneuvering in the darkness, he quietly tiptoes up the steps, avoiding the spots that creak.

He is nervous.

Lurking beside the door to Mycroft’s room, he sees a small table lamp still lit; it illuminates his brother, sitting up on the bed. A thoughtful reflective look is on Mycroft’s face, burdened with worry.

“Sherlock?”

The tone is sharp; it says: _Why are you here? You should not be here right now. You should be preparing your Russian, for your trip tomorrow to Moscow to see your informant, Igor._

Sherlock takes a step and stands in the doorway; his head is lowered, his shoulders slumped.

“I couldn’t –“ He starts to say.

“God, you look so different.” Mycroft interrupts abruptly, getting up from the bed in his fine pajamas. “The hair.” His brother reaches up to pull at Sherlock’s shorn curls; there is barely anything left to grab on to. But, Mycroft’s hand stays anyways, brushing absentmindedly at the dark fluff.

He leans into the touch.

Molly had done it for him – back at her flat where Sherlock had been lying low for the past two days since the Fall; it had been surreal, seeing the black curls lying on the tiled floor of Molly’s bathroom – a step in the metamorphosis from the living to the living dead.

Somehow, the physical space collapses between them; Mycroft’s arms are wrapped around Sherlock’s muscular thighs, and Sherlock is rubbing his nose against his brother’s _glandulae pelagus_ – the hateful scent spray not present _._ A fanciful thought drifts into Sherlock’s mind: this is a scene that is revisited throughout the history of mankind – an alpha leaving his omega to go off to war; where neither had a choice in the matter.

“What do you want, brother mine?” Mycroft’s breath blows tenderly against Sherlock’s scalp; a shiver runs up Sherlock’s spine.

Sherlock knows intuitively that whatever he asks for this night, his brother would not refuse him.

“I want you to fuck me.” Sherlock states casually, instead of saying _I want you to make love to me._

His brother’s eyes widen in surprise.

It is virtually unheard of for an omega to penetrate an alpha; a truly deviant request. But it is something Sherlock has been wanting; it is a craving that burns to be filled, ever since Mycroft had fingered that special and most secret part of Sherlock’s anatomy.

“You sure?” Mycroft has slipped his hands to his shoulders, already steering him towards the bed. Sherlock could see his brother’s widely dilated pupils and his tachycardia via his carotids; it is something Mycroft desires as well; not just simply to fuck, but for what Sherlock could not bring himself to say; to bring into a spoken existence.

He feels his back hit the mattress with a soft thud. His big brother crawls over him, brushes his cheek against his and kisses him, for the first time in approximately six long months.

This is the first time they are having sex without a heat or a rut, Sherlock notes as he experiences his brother’s kisses and caresses while being stripped of his clothes an efficient manner. The familiar desperation of their usual couplings is still there – but perhaps it could be described as they are more themselves; everything is at once crystal clear yet blurred by undefined emotion.

There is an affectionate reverence in Mycroft’s every touch; it is as if Sherlock is the sun of his brother’s heliocentric universe.

The thought makes Sherlock’s heart clench in a funny way that almost hurts.

Sherlock finds himself rolled on to his front, a pillow shoved strategically under him. A gasp escape from him when he feels something wet brush against his hole.

_Tongue_. His mind helpfully informs him, before his brother reduces him to a moaning and squirming mess over the simple patchwork quilt.

Moments too soon, Mycroft gets up to fetch something from a drawer, leaving Sherlock panting from his first encounter with the art of anilingus as the recipient.

“Mycroft…” He whines, when his brother rubs a finger teasingly along his sensitive rim.

“Not too late to back out now, Sherlock.” Mycroft says seriously while continuing to toy with the periphery of Sherlock’s hole, eliciting what sounded like ridiculous mewls to his ears.

“Never… brother.” Sherlock manages to get out. Focusing his mind and vocal cords, he requests, “I want to see you.”

“Of course,” Mycroft’s tone is fond as he allows Sherlock to flip back over.

The first breech of Sherlock’s virgin alpha hole with one of his brother’s lubricated fingers takes his breath away. The intrusion feels strange as Mycroft caresses the nerve-ending laden walls of his canal; he inhales loudly when his brother finds his prostate, immediately turning it into an exhale of pleasure as his brother applies a modicum of friction against a certain spot. A second finger gently rubs against his rim, before slowly being pushed in to join the first. He groans when his brother starts scissoring him, stretching him out wider.

For being an omega, Sherlock knows that his brother is very well endowed; some betas are smaller based on the statistics, assuming a Gaussian distribution. Not for the first time, Sherlock wonders if he should have experimented with toys beforehand – but he has wanted Mycroft to be the first and only person or thing up his bum.

A third finger stretches him impossibly wide.

“My…” Sherlock moans pitifully in neediness.

“Almost, little brother.” Mycroft is starting to breath harder; the process clearly affecting him.

“Please, My!” He squirms.

His brother stands up and divests his pajama top, bottom and pants off his person. Mycroft slicks up his cock with the lubricant and places his glans at the entrance. 

“Do it!” Sherlock demands. 

Sherlock isn’t going to lie to himself – it hurts – the penetration. He feels Mycroft stop part way in him, giving him a chance to adjust, to catch his breath and/or to back out.

“Keep going!” He tries to move his hips, but his brother’s hands are already there, holding him firm. “I will get used to it.”

“I am hurting you, brother mine.” Mycroft simply says; his eyes say _I refuse to cause you more pain than is necessary._

“But, it feels so right.” Sherlock adds, “Give it to me, please – big brother.”

The seldom used syllable is what causes Mycroft to continue. He feels every inch of his brother’s delectable prick enter him; the pain is dissipating into a background fog, being replaced with a sense of completion; a different type of permanent bonding.

Soon, his brother is rocking into him gently while they gaze at each other’s eyes. The dusky glow of the lamplight illuminates depths in his brother’s irises that are not there normally; it is mesmerizing – Sherlock stores everything greedily in his mind palace like a squirrel hoarding nuts, instinctively knowing that it is memories like this that would sustain him through the unknown dark months ahead.

“More.” He rocks his hips up, inducing Mycroft to pick up the tempo; he feels the slow burn of orgasm beginning to flare in his abdomen.

His brother bends over to brush his lips against his.

Sherlock suddenly does not want to leave London. He wishes he could just stay here. Or take Mycroft with him – and run away to somewhere cliché like… the Maldives or something.

_Fuck the rest of the world._

There is an amused glimmer in Mycroft’s eyes as his brother fucks him harder, “Too many people know – brother mine.”

“But would you?” Sherlock gasps between thrusts, feeling the rhythmic flexing and relaxation of his brother’s hands on his hips.

“Run away with you?” Mycroft pants out his response; his blue eyes shimmer with indescribable sentiment. “Come with you?”

“Come with me, My.” Sherlock stutters his syllables – not exactly sure what he is trying to say anymore, while starting to meet his brother’s motions with his own hip movements, seeking more.

He feels Mycroft’s hand encircle and stroke his cock in the way he prefers it. The flames ignite, he is so close – so painfully close.

“God, brother mine, come with me!” Mycroft cries out as he spills into him, while giving one final twist to Sherlock’s prick, causing him to come, his brother’s name on his lips – his ejaculate flies out – half of it splattering on himself and the other half on Mycroft.

The next conscious moment finds Sherlock wrapped in his brother’s arms. He nuzzles his face into Mycroft’s chest; they are both sticky with the residue of Sherlock’s seed.

“If this is a strictly a running away fantasy, I think I might.” Mycroft says.

Sherlock sighs, he mumbles, “We would always be in danger of being found out, brother mine.”

“And that is why it is a fantasy.” Mycroft replies.

They lie there, basking in the afterglow.

Mycroft says cautiously, “Thank you for that, little brother. You shouldn’t have come tonight. It is a dangerous risk.”

Sherlock replies, “I needed it.” _Needed you._

All the worry that Sherlock had seen before entering the bedroom flickers back into Mycroft’s irises – _Will you be okay, brother mine? It is a dangerous world out there. I am glad you came. Tonight._

He reaches over for the Bengal tiger at the head of the bed and carefully rescents the token with his wrists. The token itself bears all the hallmarks of a well-loved stuffed animal; the fur flattened more in places where Mycroft has touched and snuggled with in the past two years.

Sherlock knows he can’t make any promises; the situation has already been talked to death in previous meetings – the risks involved.

Something warm and wet touches his chest – Mycroft has brought a cloth to clean the evidence of their sentiment off his torso. His brother then uses the cloth to wipe the drying fluid off his own body, before tossing it on the nightstand and crawling into bed next to Sherlock.

He passes the rescented tiger back to his brother, who immediately understands.

_I will do my utmost best to come back to you – my omega, my brother, my My, my…_

.

.

Before the sun rises, Sherlock has silently slipped out of bed and thrown on the shirt, pants, jeans, ratty hoodie, socks and shoes that he had came dressed in. Just before he leaves the bedroom, he stands at the doorway once more, and looks back just once.

Steeling himself, he turns away and walks.

_An alpha off to war._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the love!  
> At this point I can say we diverge from canon events.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before Sherlock leaves Shanghai, there is an unexpected meeting.

** February 2013 **

Sherlock stands in the middle of East Nanjing Road; one of many in a nameless and faceless crowd, letting the bitter and damp cold of winter seep deep into his marrow.

He does not even know who he is anymore – today he is Morty Wentworth, a British expat living in Shanghai; last week he was Manuel Müller from Gelsenkirchen, Germany vacationing in Hong Kong.

Identities he picks up and discards – a chameleon of many coats.

_At least Morty had a passable taste in clothing_.

In one gloved hand, he holds a scrap of paper containing a simple Chinese cipher, and a card to a hotel room, somewhere nearby. Earlier, he had been at the Bund, looking out into Huangpu river like the rest of the tourists, where a Shanghainese native had approached him and dropped an envelope in his coat pocket, before leaving without a word. The cipher had been child’s play, but it had been written in Mycroft’s distinct and elegant hand – which puzzles Sherlock.

Today had been a day that was supposed to be uneventful. Sherlock has achieved all of his objectives in China – all of Moriarty’s Asian operations lay in tatters – the last cell of men and women dead or shipped off to some secret State Security-level jail by some grateful CCP government operatives.

_Is Mycroft here_?

Sherlock wonders as he strolls into a local restaurant and orders a bowl of steaming hot beef noodle soup in Mandarin with a Morty-esque butchering of the intonation – partially to chase away the cold, and to baffle any tails that might be following; Sherlock knows that no one is following him at the moment, but ingrained habits die hard.

It has been nineteen months since he had last seen his brother. He avoids the topic if he could help it – his brother probably found a new alpha by now; Sherlock has missed three of Mycroft’s heats at this point. There is no point in ruminating on things out of his control or on things that could have been; he has a job to do.

He has no time to be distracted by emotions.

The only communication they have shared have been strictly of business; an exchange of information regarding Sherlock’s tasks.

He sighs as he swirls the contents of his rich soup with his chopsticks.

.

.

An hour later, he finds the hotel. It is not the poshest place, nor is it the worst; it is mundane and clean. There are a few tourists and businessmen loitering out in the lobby. He quickly sizes them up and throws them out of mind – they are of no potential threat. Opting for the stairs, he easily climbs them, heading for the eighth floor.

_Lucky number eight_.

Cautiously, he approaches the room in question – number 821 – and swipes the key card.

Sheer panic strikes him first – the smell of an omega approaching heat assails his nose, and he is not wearing a patch. However, the scent is familiar; it is as if he has been transported the 9,191 or so kilometres back to London, England – back to home.

He closes the door.

His brother lies prone on the king-sized bed, in nothing but a typical white hotel-issue bathrobe; he does not look well at all. To be frank, Mycroft looks worse than when Sherlock had found him five years ago in his study – after having skipped having an alpha for two heats.

Worry gnaws at Sherlock. Instead he admonishes, the English syllables feeling odd in his mouth. “Do you have no sense of self-preservation, brother? Any alpha could have walked by, smelt you going into heat and gone into rut.”

His brother turns away slightly, wincing at Sherlock’s voice. Mycroft mumbles, “The door is perfectly sound.”

“That is beside the point, brother.” Sherlock shakes his head as he flings his coat and scarf carelessly on the desk nearby. “It is common curtesy.”

“And, here I was thinking you didn’t have manners.” Mycroft replies dryly.

If Mycroft could still participate in brotherly banter, then perhaps things are not as dire as they appear to be – Sherlock thinks as he removes his shoes and more of Morty’s clothing. Once naked, he crawls into bed, and lies a strategic metre or so away from his brother.

“How long?” Sherlock asks delicately.

“Till I go into heat?” Mycroft acts deliberately obtuse, avoiding the real question. “Not long.”

“Mycroft…” Sherlock sighs audibly, “Don’t be like this.”

His brother mutters something into the pillow. Sherlock transverses the distance to wrap his arms around Mycroft. “Tell me, brother.” His tone straddles the border between stern and Alpha voice; dangerously close to compelling territory, which causes Mycroft to stiffen in his arms.

It tears at Sherlock’s heart. “I won’t, you know I won’t. My, you don’t have to tell me. I know this was just an arrangement of convenience.”

It hurts even more to say those words.

His brother slumps down against Sherlock’s chest, his nose in Sherlock’s _glandulae minora_ , looking more distraught at Sherlock’s last few words than at his earlier pseudo-attempt at compelling. It takes a while for Sherlock to realize that Mycroft is actually crying.

He has never seen his brother cry.

“Sh… My.” Sherlock runs his fingers comfortingly through his brother’s dark hair.

Mycroft raises his head so that his watery eyes met Sherlock’s and he says hoarsely and despairingly, “There was one – the month after you left – but I couldn’t go through with it. I threw him out partway – before he could knot me. It felt all wrong – I couldn’t stand it.” He then whispers, “I don’t know how the other omegas could stand it in the old days, when their alphas left for years before they came back. They are all stronger than me.”

“My…” Sherlock does not know what to say. He does some simple arithmetic instead. “Three heats…”

“You could write me up as a case study.” His brother jokes weakly, referring back to an ancient conversation. “I didn’t bother trying afterwards.”

Sherlock notices that Mycroft is beginning to perspire; his pupils are dilating and the scent from his glands is maturing into something complex and delicious.

_Heat_.

“You should have told me.” Sherlock says as he leans over to sniff at Mycroft’s _glandulae pelagus_ , “We could have worked something out.”

Mycroft shakes his head. “I wanted to do my part, little brother – and we never talked about it. Didn’t want to be a burden – when there are more important things we had to do.”

_Not as important as you…_ Sherlock thinks, sadly.

His brother resumes sniffing at Sherlock’s _glandulae minora_ , rubbing his nose against the sensitive skin of Sherlock’s neck – looking more feverish by the second.

“This is going to be a strong one.” Sherlock notes as an almost long-forgotten sensation stirs in his loins.

“Mm…” Mycroft presses his lips against Sherlock’s neck.

“God, you are dripping everywhere, brother.” Sherlock uses his hand to wipe away the sweat on his brother’s neck.

Mycroft clumsily removes the bathrobe from his person, “Sherlock, I need you.” His brother pleads.

“I got you.” Sherlock leans over to kiss Mycroft on the lips. “What do you need, brother mine?”

“God, make it stop!” Mycroft groans as the throes of heat overtakes him. “It’s never been this bad.” He gasps, his body shaking violently while his hands clench at the sheets.

The alpha in Sherlock needs more. “Tell me, My.” He demands patiently.

“Fuck…” Mycroft shudders. Syllables flow out of his mouth, punctuated by shaky breaths. “Fuck me, take me, own me, knot me – I don’t care – just do something – please.”

“Present yourself, My.” Sherlock orders, needing Mycroft calmer; less frenetic.

The command seems to bring some order back into his brother’s body – Mycroft visibly relaxes. His brother gets up on all four limbs and arranges himself; he spreads his knees to present his genitalia to Sherlock.

“Gorgeous omega,” Sherlock admires from his spot in bed.

God, he’s forgotten how mesmerizing Mycroft is – even his accurate and detailed mind palace memories that he allows himself to access and wank to on special occasions over the past months paled in comparison to reality. “How beautiful you are, My. And, how wet you are for me.” He crawls to sample the gush of slick oozing out of his brother’s nether regions, drawing out a moan from Mycroft as Sherlock’s tongue laps at the sensitized area around his needy hole.

He then proceeds to embrace his brother from behind, letting his fingertips caress Mycroft’s front, feeling the physical effects that his absence has had on his brother. It is shocking exactly how much weight his brother has lost; his inner alpha laments over how much his omega has suffered. He brushes kisses over his brother’s neck, shoulders and back, while updating the data he stores in his mind palace about Mycroft.

“Sherlock, please.” His brother breathes deeply. “Take me.”

Sherlock obeys, letting the tip of his cock brush enticingly over his brother’s arse, eliciting a whine from Mycroft, before pushing into the heavenly heat. His brother sighs in relief as Sherlock’s prick slides further, fulfilling a primal need that has gone unsatisfied for too long.

As he thrusts at a moderate tempo, Sherlock kisses his brother’s _glandulae pelagus_ , slowly turning his closed mouth kisses into wet open mouth ones. He panics briefly when a tooth accidently brushes against Mycroft’s skin, but his brother does not flinch. Experimentally, he scrapes his teeth against the scent gland, feeling his brother groan as more hormones enter his circulation.

“This is new, brother mine.” Sherlock observes, as he speeds up the rate of his thrusts – his own rut demanding it of him.

Mycroft simply asks in a neutral tone – well as neutral as he could be under the circumstances, “Are you going to claim me?”

“Do you want me to?” Sherlock lets a particularly sharp incisor run against his brother’s skin – Mycroft shivers underneath him.

His brother goes quiet; the only sounds in the room being heavy panting and the rhythmic creak of the bed, accompanied by the sounds of their flesh slapping together – all overpowering the ambient noises in the room.

“My? Mycroft?” Sherlock whispers as he feels the warmth of impending orgasm in his pelvis rise.

“Yes… no…” His brother replies between breaths, “Maybe?”

Sherlock is hardly going to take that as a serious answer – consent is dubious at best during heat – especially in Mycroft’s currently vulnerable position.

It is not a fair situation.

“Please, more…” Mycroft begs, meeting each one of Sherlock’s strokes with a harder thrust of his arse back.

“Always, brother.” Sherlock begins to earnestly fuck his brother, chasing for his own peak.

“Knot me, knot me!” His brother cries in a chant-like fashion, as Sherlock feels his own long-neglected knot beginning to swell.

As he comes, Sherlock bites down on his brother’s neck – carefully calculated to not pierce the skin. The pain triggers Mycroft’s own climax, causing his omega’s passage clench against Sherlock’s prick in a way that is both pain and pleasure at once.

It is a bliss that Sherlock has never experienced before.

“Fuck, My, what was that?” Sherlock rasps out when they both collapse fully onto the mattress, knotted together. Despite the haze of potent hormones flooding his brain, he deduces and says accusingly, “You do want it.”

Mycroft turns his head to dazedly look at Sherlock. He asks timidly – looking a tad fearful, “Is that a problem?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “No, My – it is not. Never.” He nuzzles against his brother’s neck, immersing himself in Mycroft’s scent. “I was worried you know – that you would have moved on while –“

His brother’s eyes widen in disbelief and horror. “No, brother mine – there was, is and will only be you.”

He decides that now it is the time to come clean; Sherlock has had a lot of time to reflect upon things over the last months. For all their policies for keeping no secrets in bed – he has been guilty of harbouring this one for a long time. “I love you.” He quickly adds for clarification, “Not in a fraternal way.”

“Sherlock…” Mycroft’s eyes fix upon him in affectionate awe.

.

.

He is utterly worn out on the fifth day.

There is a tray on the bed – room service had delivered minutes ago: a bowl of congee with preserved egg and fish, another bowl with savoury soy milk (xián dòu jiāng), a basket full of fried crullers (yóu tiáo) and a plate of fried bao (shēng jiān bāo). The Shanghainese love their fried carbohydrates.

Mycroft watches him fondly as he picks up the chopsticks and helps himself to a bao, dipping it in some vinegar.

“When do you have to go?” Sherlock asks, taking spoonful of the soy milk.

“Tomorrow.” Mycroft replies. “Anthea bought me my ticket an hour ago.”

“I was supposed to be in Iran three days ago.” Sherlock states, noting the worry lines on his brother’s face deepen at his words. “But, I guess I will go meet T in Mosul, three days hence.”

“We shouldn’t go outside.” Mycroft turns to look at the closed curtains.

“No,” Sherlock agrees, “There are eyes everywhere these days.”

They eat.

And spend the rest of the day napping and cuddling.

Neither want the day to end.

.

.

If Sherlock had thought the first goodbye back in London was bad; the second one is utterly gut-wrenching. In the darkness, he barely makes out his brother’s slumbering form under the blankets – watching Mycroft’s chest rise and fall as he respires.

How could he ever have thought that breathing was boring?

But this is how things must go.

He has to go fetch his things from his previous bolthole, and there is a flight to catch to Vienna from Pudong International Airport.

There are still so many things left unsaid between them.

But he leaves knowing that his omega; his brother; his My loves him too.

Taking a deep but quiet breath, Sherlock undergoes a transformation; he alters his posture, his gait and his attitude. He opens the door and walks out as Morty Wentworth.

He does not look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the support. :)


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is lost...

** August 2013 **

_This is how he is going to die._

Sherlock leans heavily on a crude bamboo stick sharpened into a spear, limping painfully along a gurgling stream surrounded by acres of rainforest. It is humid, his clothing is drenched; he has long forgotten what it feels like to be dry.

Things ache.

Things itch.

Exposure is going to kill him, if a jaguar doesn’t get him first.

Or any of those innumerable other things that could kill a person in the Amazon.

He doesn’t know how long he has been struggling; time has become immaterial. After everything he has been through and accomplished, it is the end that would be his demise.

_How anticlimactic._

He is exhausted.

But he has no choice; it is to do or die; to sink or swim.

He has no idea where he is; he is not even sure which country he is in anymore. Everything is simply different shades of green.

_Mycroft._

He wonders if his brother knows about his current predicament. Everyone who had been part of the denouement of the dismantling of Moriarty’s last cell is dead – except for him. Even his loyal guide Gustavo had perished in the fire.

 _Fucking Moran and his love for secret underground bases in the middle of god forsaking nowhere_.

_“You need to keep going, brother mine.”_

He is hallucinating for sure now; he can see his brother walking alongside him – complete in three-piece suit and umbrella. If he had any energy left to spare, he would have laughed at the absurd image.

Truly a fish out of water.

_“Whether I am real or not is irrelevant. Your reality is still the same.”_

“Thank you, brother.” Sherlock whispers; he aims for sarcasm, but it falls short. “Do I want to know where I am?”

_“Best not.”_

“Will I live?” Sherlock asks.

_“For both of our sakes, I do hope the outcome is positive.”_

Imaginary or not, his brother fixes him with a look that means a thousand words. Sherlock does not dare interpret a single one.

They travel onwards.

“I don’t know if I can go on any further.” Sherlock stops to fish out a canteen from the knapsack on his back, wincing at each movement.

He drinks, while Mycroft gives him a disappointed look.

“It is simply a reality, brother – my leg is probably broken. I have a nasty burn that this humidity is not helping with; it is probably going to be infected, if it isn’t already. I am running out of water. Most of our supplies were destroyed in the fight. I don’t dare sleep – it would mean death. I am tired, My. So tired. I haven’t slept in days, tracking down Moran and his minions across the world.”

While he puts away the precious water, he continues forlornly, looking at his brother. “I don’t want to die, My. Maybe I had a death wish when I was younger – but no longer.” He inhales deeply and says; he doesn’t cry – he doesn’t have the water to spare for that. “I want to see you again. I want everything that you want for us. I know we didn’t talk about anything besides sharing a mutual desire to bond back in Shanghai – maybe it’s for the best considering the current circumstances, I don’t know.” Sherlock hangs his head. “I love you.”

He rambles onwards, a delirious creature.

The last thing he remembers is someone exclaiming, “Then live!” before blacking out.

.

.                          

The pungent smells of hospital antiseptics drift into Sherlock’s awareness. He next sees the yellow walls of the small hospital room as he opens his eyes, followed by the sounds of intelligible Spanish that could be heard from the distance outside the room.

There is an IV infusing some clear solution into his arm.

Someone is watching him.

Weakly, he turns his head around.

_Mycroft._

He tries to speak, but his throat is too raw, too parched.

“Shh… brother mine.” Mycroft tangles his fingers comfortingly in Sherlock’s hair, “Everything is fine now. Rest.” 

.

.

The next time he surfaces, he can hear his brother talking to one of the physicians in Spanish; they are in Peru – Sherlock deduces from the internist’s dialect. From what he understands of the conversation, there is a mixed 2nd and 3rd degree burn on his dominant shoulder and arm, he has a badly sprained ankle and that he is severely dehydrated.

It perfectly explains the pain he feels.

He can still hear Gustavo’s frantic shouts of “¡Fuera de acá, hermano!” ringing inside his head as he had made a run for it – out of Moran’s rainforest hidey-hole.

“His family will be well-compensated, brother. His son will have his education and basic-upkeep completely funded.” Mycroft returns back to the bedside; there is a cup of ice chips in his hand.

Sherlock accepts one in his mouth, letting the soothing cold melt; a balm for his dry oral cavity.

 _How did you find me?_ Sherlock wants to ask.

His brother grabs his hand firmly and says with utmost conviction. “I will always be able to find you, brother mine.”

Flashes of old memories involving Mycroft pulling and/or carrying him out of drug dens and other unsavoury situations fire in Sherlock’s brain. He thinks about his hallucinatory experience from earlier in the middle of the Amazon; he had thought it was his brain’s way of preparing for death – but perhaps deep down he always knew that his big brother would come for him.

.

.

** Four days later… **

“Shall I deport Dr. Watson to Siberia, brother?” There is a barely perceptible fury lurking in Mycroft’s countenance and tone although the question itself is delivered with a trivial air, as he walks into the bedroom.

Sherlock, who is sprawled naked across Mycroft’s bed, winces. He knows his brother is referring to his newly acquired black eye. “There is no need to take such drastic measures, My.”

“I suppose everyone else was happy to see you?” Mycroft asks, even though he has already read the answer from Sherlock’s face.

“Mrs. Hudson did want to brain me with a frying pan at first.” Sherlock admits.

Mycroft removes his suit jacket and loosens his tie. “Ah, Siberia is always looking for new workers.” He states as he continues to undress with meticulous care. “The turnover is rather high.”

“I wonder why, brother dear.” Sherlock muses dryly, admiring Mycroft’s arse as he leans over to put some of the clothes away.

“Hmph… Alphas…” His brother says pseudo-disdainfully, finally noticing where Sherlock’s eyes had gone. “Always one thing on their simple minds.”

“This simple mind wants your bum, My.” Sherlock then adds quickly, noticing his brother’s expression, “And of course, the rest of you.”

“Mm…” Mycroft crawls into bed, naked, and nuzzles against Sherlock’s neck with his nose. “Want you too, brother mine.”

“Seven months is too long.” Sherlock sighs as he leans over to kiss his brother. “I am sorry that I missed your heat.”

“You were almost done with everything.” Mycroft presses a kiss against Sherlock’s _glandulae minora_. “Didn’t seem prudent to arrange something with Moran running amok.”

“I suppose…” Sherlock sniffs at his brother’s _glandulae pelagus_ ; the scent is still dulled by the spray. “I never want to leave without you again.”

“You don’t have to.” Mycroft proceeds to kiss and suck a pleasurable line from Sherlock’s chest to cock. He looks up partway and winks, “Since I didn’t get the pleasure of your nice alpha cock last month, you might as well make it up to me, little brother.”

“Omegas…” Sherlock grumbles playfully but is cut off when his brother licks teasingly at his ‘nice alpha cock’ in a manner suitable for other summer treats. “Mmpph, My…” Sherlock moans when Mycroft takes his prick into his wet, warm mouth. “Feels so good… “ He sighs as he lets his back fall against the bed, while Mycroft tongues at his frenulum.

_How did he survive without sex again?_

He feels bereft when Mycroft releases his cock from his mouth with a decadent slurp. His brother brings back some lubricant and uses it to generously slick up Sherlock’s erect phallus.

 Mycroft’s pupils are completely dilated, and he is breathing hard. But his brother manages to say, “I’ve never had a cock up my arse outside of heat.”

Sherlock shrugs with his unburnt shoulder, as Mycroft continues to deliciously frig his achingly hard cock with his hand. “It is all yours, My.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Mycroft straddles Sherlock thighs. “Mine.”

Sherlock shudders at the smoldering possessive look that his brother gives him, and groans when his brother sinks slowly onto his length. Mycroft stops to give himself time to adjust to the size of Sherlock’s alpha cock – not being in heat means that more preparation is needed. Sherlock resists the innate urge to thrust up, letting his brother dictate the proceedings.

Sensing Sherlock’s wordless submission, Mycroft says amusedly, “Good boy.”

Sherlock wants to protest, but his brother takes him in further, leaving him with incoherence vibrating in his larynx. The wayward syllables dissipate to nothingness as Mycroft begins to seriously ride him.

He finds himself clutching at a pillow, while meeting every one of Mycroft’s movements with a thrust of his own. The heat within him gathers, and he finds himself climbing towards the inevitable.

“Fuck, brother, you feel so good.” Mycroft gasps out the syllables – Sherlock senses that his brother is close as well.

Sherlock knows that neither of them are going to last long – too much time has passed since their last sexual encounter.

“My!” Sherlock cries out as he feels himself ejaculate deep into Mycroft; his first time without his inflated knot. His brother comes seconds after him with a grunt, spilling his load all over Sherlock’s bare chest.

“Mm… we will do this more often now?” Sherlock mumbles into Mycroft’s furry chest afterwards.

“If you wish it, brother mine.” Mycroft says rather neutrally.

“Of course, I want it.” Sherlock exclaims. He then says soberly. “But only if you want it.”

Mycroft looks tenderly at him. “Then we shall have it often.”

“I can live with that.” Sherlock smiles.

There is another silence while they lie entwined with Mycroft’s ejaculate drying on their skin.

“John is going to bond soon.” Sherlock starts the conversation delicately. “They were proposing today. Mary and him. They are going to have a bonding ceremony.”

“And what does Dr. Watson’s bond status has to do with us, little brother?” Mycroft asks cautiously.

“That we should finish a conversation we had in Shanghai over seven months ago? Does that ring any bells, My?” Sherlock replies with utmost seriousness.

Mycroft leans over to nuzzle at Sherlock’s glandulae minora. “You still want that, little brother? It is irreversible, you know. You will be bonded to your big brother, forever.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Believe me, I know, My. I cannot think of a better fate, to be honest.” He then adds, “You know before I passed out in the Amazon –“

Mycroft actually blushes, “I heard it. I didn’t dare believe it.”

“You were there?” Sherlock is bemused, “I thought I was speaking to –“

“You said you wanted everything that I wanted.” Mycroft states. “I had just walked over to you at that point. But you were feverish, delirious and dehydrated out of your mind.”

“I thought I was going to die.” Sherlock admits.

“Fortunately, we found you in time. We were always a few steps behind you, little brother, especially when Moran became the target.” Mycroft leans over to kiss Sherlock on the lips. “You weren’t too far from the nearest village. A good half hour more, and you would have stumbled right upon it.”

“I suppose there is going to have to be debrief session at some point?” Sherlock asks.

Mycroft nods, “I just wanted to give you a day or two back in London to catch your breath. The MI6 wants to see you tomorrow, I think.”

“Should we do it in February then?” Sherlock changes the topic, determined to finish what he has started. “Our sixth anniversary – I guess.”

“Is this you proposing to me, brother?” Mycroft says with amused fondness.

“Are you expecting to be wined and dined, My? Like John was?”

“Stop bringing that damnable Dr. Watson into our bed.” Mycroft groans.

“Apologies.” Sherlock says with a grin, “Although I don’t think Mary would be very pleased with any of us.”

Mycroft ignores the joke, he says earnestly, “Then we will do it in February – I don’t want us to waste more time than we’ve already wasted, brother mine.”

Sherlock hugs his brother fiercely, ignoring the pain in his gauze-covered right shoulder; he does not think it is possible to be happier in his present existence.

.

.

** 2 months later… **

“What in the world are you thinking about, My?” Sherlock walks into the living room, where his brother is perched in his armchair, evidently not reading the fantasy book – _Bridge of Birds_ – that rests open in his hand.

Mycroft flushes, caught completely off guard. “Nothing – nothing at all.”

“For someone who taught me how to lie when I was a child – you are awfully bad at it.” Sherlock leans on the plush armchair leisurely adjacent to his brother, rubbing his nose against Mycroft’s delectable neck. A flash of insight strikes him, “This doesn’t have anything to do with a certain appointment tomorrow does it, brother mine?”

His brother doesn’t say a word; however,  Sherlock reads Mycroft’s face like a book.

Sherlock thinks for a moment.

He finally says with an air of casualness, “The choice is yours, My. I am happy to share with you any experience that is relevant to the intersection of you and I.”

His words said, Sherlock strides back out the room, leaving his brother to his deep contemplation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah... my exam is in two days!  
> I have to leave the country for it.  
> Probably no update till next week!
> 
> ¡Fuera de acá, hermano! - Get out, brother!
> 
> As usual, thank you for the support!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where they bond.

** February 2014 **

Sherlock lounges naked on the bed, surrounded by the ever-growing collection of blankets, clothing and pillows that Mycroft had spent the previous week organizing and reorganizing into a spectacular nest. The bedroom smells different these days – the scents of sweat, sex and pheromones have deeply permeated various objects and furniture in his brother’s private domain – compounded by the fact that his meticulously clean brother had refused to change the bedsheets in the past two weeks leading up to this particular heat. If this had been the bedroom of strangers, Sherlock would have been able to conclude that the couple who shared the bed fucked regularly – almost every day and is an unbonded alpha-omega pair who is contemplating bonding for starters. He had always been able to go to a bedroom on a case and deduce the characteristics of the two individuals who shared the bed and their relationship – especially alpha-omega couples – just by having a good sniff around.

He reaches for the Bengal tiger that resides on his omega’s side of the bed. Well-worn and well-loved are appropriate descriptors for the plush toy. Sherlock buries his nose against the soft fur – sniffing Mycroft’s familiar scent. Although his brother never told him, Sherlock knows that Mycroft has spent many a lonely night over the last few years with the tiger and a glass of whiskey and cuddling and sniffing at the toy during his alpha-less heats. He also has the suspicion that his brother may have even cried over the plush as well – but he knows better than to ask.

There is tension coiled in his abdomen – nerves. He had spent some time researching bonding on the internet – there is plethora of potentially rubbish information online – for example stylish ways for an alpha to bite an omega seems to be a new hot topic. And he doesn’t know whether or not Mycroft actually went off the progestogen – the male omega can only conceive during a heat after all. He had told Mycroft that it was his decision, but some part of him is incredibly alarmed and afraid of the situation. And the effects of incest on any potential offspring they may have – Sherlock is perfectly aware that being first-degree relatives (brother-brother) unless if Mummy has a secret of her own would dramatically increase the risk that any children had between his brother and himself would be homozygous for recessive alleles (having two copies of deleterious genes) and therefore would be unhealthy, if not miscarried. There was a study that examined the children of incestuous siblings which found that two-thirds of the studied children had some form of congenital defect. There had been only twenty-nine kids used in the research, but Sherlock feels uneasy about the meager presented data. Granted the children were produced of beta-beta unions, so Sherlock isn’t sure about how the risks would be for an alpha-omega couple. The data would have been a lot less worrisome had Mycroft and him been first cousins or something.

The bed dips, and Sherlock sighs and relaxes when his brother’s nose is buried against his _glandulae minora_ , nuzzling it in a comforting manner.

“Everything will be fine, brother mine.” Mycroft whispers in his ear. “Stop worrying – that is my job.”

“I am just thinking, My…” Sherlock says, going limp as his brother nibbles and licks at his scent gland, “What would Mummy say?”

Mycroft actually laughs, “I think we are too far gone to care – brother. Incest bonding isn’t illegal.”

“Just rare, and not usually done in this modern age.” Sherlock finishes as his omega embraces him from behind; Mycroft’s practiced fingers caress his hairless chest and fondle his nipples, making him gasp loudly as his brother pinches one of them, hard.

“Second thoughts, brother?” Mycroft asks; there is an iota of insecurity in his voice.

“No, My.” Sherlock shakes his head. “Just nervous.” He turns his neck to sniff at Mycroft’s _glandulae pelagus._ “It’s going to happen soon.”

“Mm…” Mycroft groans when Sherlock licks and scrapes his teeth roughly against his scent gland.

His omega shudders, when Sherlock practices a bite against a gland, not hard enough to break the skin.

“You can bite it however you want, I’ve seen those rubbish magazine articles too.” Mycroft says knowingly after Sherlock experimentally tries a few different ways to bite. He then rubs his nose against Sherlock’s _glandulae minora_ again, and lets his sharp incisors sink into the skin. “I am going to bite you the second round.” Mycroft’s voice is almost a growl.

It is Sherlock’s turn to shiver – even though physiologically, Mycroft’s bite has no purpose; it is simply a possessive gesture.

He knows his brother can be a very possessive person.

“My alpha,” Mycroft presses a kiss on Sherlock’s abused flesh.

“Your alpha,” Sherlock twists his neck around to kiss his brother.

His rut is starting to build in his loins as he smells the maturing scent of Mycroft’s heat. The heat will be strong, considering that they had missed one.

“Need you now, brother.” Mycroft groans, as Sherlock places teasing kisses on his brother’s neck, chest and works his way down to the cock.

He licks at his brother’s prick, tasting the droplets of precum beginning to drip from the slit. Mycroft shifts his position, presenting, unasked, the entrance to his cloaca. Sherlock allows his head to drop, to lap at the decadent fluid flowing from his omega’s glands. It brings him back – to the very first heat that he and Mycroft had shared almost six years ago. How things have changed! And, here he is, preparing to do what was unthinkable all those years before – to bond – and not with any omega – but his brother. He greedily tongues at the perianal glands, before delving into his brother’s hole. He licks and licks, as Mycroft moans and wantonly pushes his bum further against Sherlock’s face in a quest for more.

“Sherlock, please!” Mycroft pleads, desperation in his tone.

“Soon, brother mine.” Sherlock pulls his face away slightly, panting the syllables, covered in his brother’s lubrication. His own rut is crying for him to thrust his alpha cock into his brother’s hole. Instead, he rubs the glans of his prick against the periphery of his omega’s hole.

“Sherlock…” Mycroft’s whine dies when Sherlock finally buries his cock in one fluid motion into his brother’s cloaca.

Without allowing Mycroft time to adjust to the penetration, Sherlock commences his hip-work, thrusting slowly, but forcefully – determined to draw out the experience, despite his own instincts demanding that he fuck his omega into oblivion. Mycroft pushes back against his motions, trying to get Sherlock to increase the speed, but Sherlock grabs on to his brother’s bucking hips – determined to control the tempo. His grip is strong enough to leave marks on his omega’s pristine pale skin.

“More!” Mycroft pants, just as Sherlock shifts the angle of his thrusts, allowing his cock to brush against his brother’s prostate with the perfect amount of force, turning his brother’s coherent words into euphoric gibberish.

Sherlock finds himself wishing that he could look into his brother’s eyes during this process, but then again, Mycroft had picked this position. However, his brother seems to sense his desire; his want, and reluctantly pulls himself off Sherlock’s cock, so that they could readjust. Sherlock contributes by shoving a pillow under his omega’s hips.

“Fuck me, now.” Mycroft demands in that dangerous tone of his – usually reserved for his role as the _British Government_.

His body instinctively obeys; without even being cognizant of it, Sherlock slips his lubricant slicked cock back into Mycroft’s needy hole. His brother never speaks to him in that voice – even when he is beyond furious or frustrated at whatever antics Sherlock had pulled. It is as potent as any Alpha’s voice – if not more so.

He fucks his omega the way they both want it – animalistic, beastly, primitively – borderline violent – his short nails digging painfully into his brother’s flesh. As his rut crests towards orgasm, the sounds of their sex crescendo – Mycroft’s needy noises intensify, Sherlock pants become increasingly laboured while the bed creaks due to their efforts. He can feel the knot at the base of his prick begin to swell – and with every brutal thrust, the gradually swelling knot gets mercilessly rammed into Mycroft’s hole.

He catches his brother’s eyes then – the blue irises are shining with a strange emotion. The conversation is non-verbal.

_Not going to last any longer, My._

_Then come and claim me as yours, brother._

_You sure?_

_Yes. Do it._

_God! I am coming!_

As, he comes, Sherlock bends down and bites down hard, piercing the flesh over his brother’s right _glandulae pelagus_. A shock of euphoria shoots through his nerves, while Mycroft cries out – whether due to his orgasm or Sherlock’s bite, he does not know – and his brother’s cloaca contracts against his prick, painfully and pleasurably milking the seed from him in a rhythmic fashion. He doesn’t remember what happens after – his body too blissed out to care.

When he comes to minutes later, his brother has dragged him back to the middle of the bed, and they are snuggling together. They are both a mess of endogenous lubricating fluid and Mycroft’s semen. But, Sherlock cannot be arsed to care – the pleasant and natural high still is running through his body. He might as well enjoy it – bonding is a once in a lifetime experience. Based on what he has read, it is unlikely that this sensation could ever be reproduced.

Minutes later, Sherlock assesses the bite that he has inflicted on his brother – it had bled, but the blood has coagulated and dried on Mycroft’s pale delectable skin. Apologetically, he licks at the dried blood, tasting the metallic flavour. He is aware that there are healing properties in the saliva of the alpha after the bonding is complete. His brother still looks somewhat dazed, as if he cannot believe that this whole experience has happened. Mycroft cannot see the bond bite based on where it is placed; Sherlock moves away, allowing his brother to touch the wound with his fingers. Over the next few weeks, it will scar – a permanent imprint of Sherlock’s bite.

“Do you feel any different?” Sherlock asks – there is a lingering sense of awe and happiness within him that seems to be from his brother.

Mycroft gently pulls him down, resuming their cuddling. “I can feel your anxiety, brother – there is absolutely no need for it.” His brother proceeds to scent him, nuzzling against his _glandulae minora_. “It’s normal, you know – once you bond – one is usually able to feel the emotions of your mate. We will see what else this bond allows us when it has some time to solidify.”

“Mm…” Sherlock sighs when Mycroft licks at his scent gland.

“Are you finally going to move in?” Mycroft asks in between his ministrations to Sherlock’s neck.

“Aren’t I pretty much already – moved in?” Sherlock replies with a question – over the last few months, more and more of his things have found their way into Mycroft’s house. Also, he’s been sleeping in his brother’s bed more than his own bed back at Baker Street. “Mrs. Hudson already figured out everything – she says that I can use one of her rooms to see clients, so I don’t have to keep paying for a flat I don’t really need.”

“She does not have a problem with it?” Mycroft asks – more out of curiosity.

Sherlock shakes his head, “She is of the opinion that whatever makes me happy, makes her happy too.”

“And this makes you happy, brother mine?” Mycroft presses a kiss against Sherlock’s scent gland.

“What do you feel from me, My?” Sherlock moves to kiss his brother’s lips – at this point, his knot from his cock has deflated, and he pulls himself easily out of his omega’s hole.

“You are happy.” Mycroft nods, as he reaches over to grab a bottle of water from the stash of drinks and non-perishable food items appropriate for use between heats. He drinks half and passes Sherlock the other half.

Sherlock sniffs the air – his brother’s scent has indeed changed – it now smells like a hybrid aroma that is a mix between himself and his brother – with some other notes that had not been present on either before the bonding. It is something new he would have to get used to – although he finds the new scent equally enticing. And, he can tell from the smell and from his own instincts that his brother’s heat is about to demand his attention again.

.

.

“God, brother – you are insatiable.” Sherlock groans after collapsing against his brother after what is hopefully his last set of orgasms for a long while. He is exhausted and sore, the heat has lasted four days – and Mycroft had been particularly demanding and dare-he-say-it, needy, towards the end.

“Not needy.” Mycroft protests – having telepathically picked up on Sherlock’s thoughts.

“Mm… beg to differ, brother mine.” Sherlock looks at where his brother’s arms are – wrapped tight against his waist. He then complains, “Looks like my thoughts aren’t safe anymore.”

“We shouldn’t have secrets between us, little brother.” Mycroft tugs him down carefully, mindful of the sensitive knot that holds them together, so that they aren’t lying on top of each other.

Sherlock wants to ask about the progestogen, but the words fail to make it to his mouth. His brother doesn’t seem to pick up on it. Instead, Mycroft is comfortably resting his head against Sherlock’s chest. In fact, his omega has fallen asleep first for once with Sherlock’s cock still buried in his arse.

He thinks about it – his brother is almost forty – the chances of conceiving go substantially down once an omega passes the age of thirty-five. But considering how much sex has happened over the last four days – it was probably at least a coin toss worth of a chance, providing that Mycroft did go off the contraceptive. Sherlock shakes his head – it’s too late now anyways – and he is amazed that he is still capable of probability and rational thought. Figuring that they would deal with it later – Sherlock follows his omega happily into sleep.

 _His omega… is really his omega now,_ is his last coherent thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the support!  
> One last chapter to go!  
> <3


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At John and Mary's reception.

** June 2014 **

“Really, brother? Here?” Sherlock dubiously surveys the dimly illuminated closet that Mycroft had abruptly dragged him into. There is the strong smell of cleaning supplies with an impressive array of mops, vacuums and buckets.

Mycroft immediately shoves him against a wall, obviously beyond caring about his surroundings.

His back hits the wall with a gentle thud, while his brother quickly removes Sherlock’s suit jacket and tie.

“Anyone can come in…” Sherlock looks pointedly at the door in futile protest, while going slack as Mycroft licks and sucks furiously at his uncovered _glandulae minora_. He can sense the arousal radiating off his brother and also through that alpha-omega connection that they share now. It has been a common theme this week – Mycroft’s seemingly endless hunger for Sherlock’s alpha cock. His brother’s fingers have deftly removed Sherlock’s belt, and unfastened his trousers – revealing his pants, which Mycroft proceeds to mouth at after sinking down on to his knees – applying a delicious pressure on his scrotal sac.

“God, brother…” Sherlock groans as Mycroft finally pulls down his pants – which were now damp from his brother’s saliva and Sherlock’s precum –, freeing his cock from its cotton confinement. His brother playfully swipes at his frenulum with a pink tongue. “You should see yourself – my lascivious omega – such a gorgeous tease – fuck – “ Sherlock curses when Mycroft suddenly engulfs a large portion of his cock into his warm mouth. His prick hardens under his brother’s skilled ministrations – Mycroft slowly takes in more of his cock while using his palms and fingers to cover what he couldn’t take in.

Sherlock rather enjoys the view – besides if anyone did come in here – it is basically the old tale of a randy hormonal omega desperate for their bondmate’s cock.

Mycroft lets Sherlock’s cock go with an obscene noise, before standing back up and reversing their positions, his own fingers fumbling with his own trousers. Sherlock takes pity and removes his omega’s suit jacket, waistcoat and tie, while pressing a kiss against the newly exposed _glandulae pelagus_ where Sherlock’s bonding bite marks the pale skin of his brother.

“Fuck me.” Mycroft says – his tone is hoarse and needy. “Please, alpha.”

“Brace yourself against the wall.” Sherlock orders, while grabbing firmly on to his brother’s hips. He then hesitates before looking into various pockets, before finding a few packets of lubricant in his brother’s trouser pockets. “Were you hoping to get lucky?” He asks teasingly.

“There is no need to waste energy on hoping when it is a sure thing, brother mine.” Mycroft says breathlessly. “Good god – just stick your cock in me.”

Sherlock rips open a packet, and squeezes the lubricant onto his fingers, before swiping some of his brother’s endogenous slick slowly leaking from the perianal glands – mixing the two together – and inserts two of his digits into Mycroft’s cloaca. “You aren’t even in heat – and yet you are so damn wet.” Sherlock observes, “and loose…”

“Just fuck me already.” Mycroft’s begging is music to Sherlock’s ears.

He loves it – seeing his prim and perfect brother beg like this. Especially outside of heat. Sherlock squeezes a third finger in, and teasingly works a fourth finger around his brother’s rim. He wants to fuck his brother too, but he refuses to do so in a way that could potentially injure Mycroft. Unlike in the case of heat, some preparation is needed.

“Sherlock…” Mycroft whines into the wall. “Please…”

After lining his cock up with his brother’s hole, Sherlock pushes in. They both groan at the sensation of penetration – Mycroft’s passage is still tight around his prick – despite the innumerable times they had fucked over the past months.  

“John is pregnant.” Sherlock says as he finally sinks completely in. “He is already showing.”

“Less gossiping, little brother. And more fucking.” Mycroft reprimands – the words coming out in one quick stream, while Sherlock moves his hands from Mycroft’s hips to his abdomen. Over the last few months, his brother has gained back all the weight he had lost during Sherlock’s time away – and there is a barely perceptible belly that is beginning to form.

“This is all your fault – you know.” His brother accuses with a deep sigh – there is more fondness than bite in his voice.

Sherlock knows better than to say that everything is really Mycroft’s fault. He still has a desire to live – after all. He obeys and focuses a little more on his thrusts.

“Harder!” Mycroft moans as Sherlock slips his hands beneath the dress shirt, feeling up his brother’s soft abdomen. “Not made out of glass, brother.” Mycroft further complains, as Sherlock rocks back into him and lets his hands roam further up the shirt – allowing his fingertips to graze and tease the nipples. Mycroft actually whimpers when Sherlock lightly traces his areolae – particularly sensitive spots during pregnancy. Fuck, Sherlock is really looking forward to when his brother really starts showing – he has done his research – besides the belly, there are the breasts and the widening of the pelvis in preparation for delivery. True external signs that show that he has really fucked up and bred his omega; something that excites his inner alpha. Sherlock can see why some alphas are incentivized to keep breeding their omegas – although he highly doubts Mycroft would ever want to repeat this experience – due to his age, the genetic risks and that it puts him at the mercy of his biology – something that Mycroft has despised since he had presented as an omega all those years ago.

“Oh fuck…” Mycroft starts grunting, when Sherlock realizes that his knot is actually starting to swell. It is the first time that Sherlock’s knot has grown outside of heat – an uncommon occurrence in alphas not in rut.

“Do you want it, My?” Sherlock drops the fragile egg act and starts vigorously fucking his brother, so that his knot could slide in more easily into the cloaca. “My knot?”

“I always want it.” Mycroft groans greedily – “Give it!”

Sherlock feels the inevitable creep up in his loins. As he comes, his knot locks him and Mycroft together – causing his brother to howl when his own orgasm comes upon him – spraying his small jet of ejaculate against the wall. It must be an intense sensation to be knotted outside of heat – Sherlock thinks. He holds tightly to his brother, and they both are panting and leaning against the wall for support. Much to his horror, he could see that the door near the far corner of the room crack slightly open – he deduces that it is another horny couple looking to make use of the facilities available in the reception hall. Sherlock disguises his voice and yells, “It’s taken! And we are fucking!”

He hears Mary’s friend – Janine – outside the door. “Damn it, James – see I told you it was occupied.”

The door slams closed, and Sherlock can feel his heart pounding.

“Still your fault, little brother.” Mycroft turns his head around to look at him, while Sherlock nuzzles his brother’s neck.

“As you tell me, every day.” Sherlock replies, pressing another kiss on to his brother’s delectable neck.

“What set off your knot?” Mycroft asks him, curiously. “Sex in public places?”

“I wasn’t aware that there has to be specific kink required for a knot to inflate, brother. I thought it was random.” Sherlock responds, letting his teeth scrape against his brother’s skin – causing a small tremor to run through his omega’s body.

“Tell me anyways.” Mycroft insists.

“Your body.” Sherlock answers honestly, “Could you honestly not deduce from what I was doing?”

“At least one of us likes it.” Mycroft says forlornly. “I am not looking forward to it, brother. There’s the weight gain, the breasts, the weird food cravings, the neediness – god the hormones. And spare me the crap about it’s what the fetus needs. Then there’s going to be the need for maternity clothes – and I am going to be fat…”

Sherlock feels terrible about his old comments about Mycroft’s weight before they had gotten together. If only he knew how much his youthful sins would cause him such future grief. He hugs his brother tightly and presses more affectionate kisses to his brother’s neck, shoulders and wherever else he could reach from his current position.

“And you are my alpha…” Mycroft continues, “You –”

“Mycroft…” Sherlock shakes his head. “You look fantastic – and I love you regardless of how you look. Although, I do look forward to –“

His brother makes a face, already knowing what Sherlock is going to say. “You are an alpha – of course you would be obsessed with an omega’s breasts. While I am hoping that they would be as non-intrusive as possible, you are probably hoping that they are apparent and obvious.”

“Guilty as charged.” Sherlock admits.

“And no doubt they would leak everywhere.” Mycroft says with great dismay.

“If you keep this up, I am going to keep you in this closet.” Sherlock warns. “Brother mine. And if someone does come into the closet again – I will let them stay and see what a beautiful omega I have speared on my prick – My.”

.

.

“Thank you both for coming.” Mary – dressed in a traditional alpha suit – shakes both Sherlock’s and Mycroft’s hands. Her other arm is wrapped possessively around John, whose pregnant belly shows obviously even in the looser omega robes. Sherlock knows that shorter omegas show sooner than taller ones – like his.

John is busy flitting his eyes between Sherlock and Mycroft – sensing something is different. Sherlock knows that he and Mycroft have not been together in the same room as John ever since they had bonded. Nor had Sherlock laid eyes on John in the last few months or so before the ceremony. John’s eyes widen, and his lips form an ‘O’ when he realizes.

“Oh, my goodness – you two are a bonded pair!” John exclaims in shock and astonishment. He leans forward to sniff the air, “And you –“ John looks pointedly at Mycroft. “Are pregnant.”

“How cute –“ Mary gushes, causing both Sherlock and Mycroft to visibly wince in synchrony. “A new generation of Watson and Holmes! Congratulations!”

“Thank you.” Sherlock replies – rather inanely. This was definitely something that Sherlock had never dreamed he would be saying his thanks for.

“Well, we got to dash! Stay and enjoy the dancing for a bit!” Mary takes John’s hand and disappears downstairs to the dance floor.

.

.

In a fairly discreet and empty corner on the second floor – where one could overlook the dance floor on the ground floor from the stone railings – Sherlock is leading Mycroft in a dance – essentially a waltz that has gradually devolved into the two of them swaying with each other.

“Any regrets, My?” Sherlock asks his brother as some slow music starts playing in the background. He is a bit concerned – considering Mycroft’s recent deluge of insecurities.

Mycroft leans forward to kiss him on the lips, as they sway in the rhythm. “No, brother mine – not a single one. I am happy to bear your kit –“

“Our kit.” Sherlock interjects firmly.

“And, be bonded to you. My alpha.” Mycroft nuzzles against Sherlock’s neck – although his clothing covers his scent gland. “My Sherlock. Do you regret anything, brother mine?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “My only regrets would be all the mean things I did to you before we were together – My.”

“Sh…” Mycroft reaches up to caress Sherlock’s jawline. “Long forgotten. And long forgiven.”

“God, I love you.” Sherlock kisses Mycroft. “My Mycroft – my omega.”

Mycroft makes a face and says, “Sentiment…”

“I know – makes us ridiculously sappy.” Sherlock says understandingly. “And disgustingly saccharine.”

“I warned you against it.” Mycroft exclaims, “And look at us! But, I love you too – little brother.”

“Well – we are a lost cause anyways, My. Let’s drown in sentiment together.” Sherlock shrugs, while leading Mycroft back into a something that resembles a slow waltz.

Mycroft nods with affection shining in his blue eyes. “Always, brother mine.”

**The End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end :)  
> I will probably write some one-shots in this universe. Not sure yet.


End file.
